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Title: Ribbons and Laces

Date of first publication: 1924

Author: Ruby Mildred Ayres (1883-1955)

Date first posted: Sep. 23, 2014

Date last updated: Sep. 23, 2014

Faded Page eBook #20140931

This ebook was produced by: Alex White
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

Chapter I

“Ribbons and laces for sweet pretty faces—

Oh, come to the market and buy.”

When Linda was quite a tiny child, and, as her
mother, who did not understand her, or attempt
to do so, would say, “a very naughty child,” the
only way in which to keep her quiet and prevent
her from being naughty, was to allow her to sort
out her grandmother’s “ribbon box.”

Linda’s grandmother was an old-fashioned
grandmother. She wore a cap of snowy lace on
her grey hair, and black silk frocks that touched
the ground all round, and a gold watch chain a
yard and a half long which went twice round her
neck and hung down to her waist, and she still
put sprigs of lavender amongst her clothes
instead of the new fashionable scented sachet,
and she was a firm believer in a button bag and
a ribbon box.

If a garment wore out, or was about to be given
away to a poor relation, or someone in the village,
she first looked it carefully over to see if there were
any special buttons attached to it which were
worth keeping in case they should come in for
another frock or coat or whatever might be in the
making; and if they were, snip! Grannie’s
scissors cut them neatly off, and they were carefully
put away in the button bag.

The same thing applied to oddments of lace and
silk, and ribbons, or bits of fancy trimming, and
such things; they all found their way into the
ribbon box, where, be it admitted, they generally
stayed indefinitely, as the occasion never seemed
to arise when their usefulness could be put into
practice again.

And Linda loved that button bag and that
ribbon box!

To turn the buttons out on the floor and marshal
them into long, varying lines, would keep her good
for hours, and her idea of complete happiness for a
long time after, as her mother plaintively said, “One
would have expected her to have outgrown such
childishness”—was to be allowed to “dress up”
in the contents of the ribbon box.

Priceless odd lengths of lace, yellow with age, and
as silky as a cobweb, lovely soft pieces of ribbons,
each either too long or too short to be of any real
use; queer-shaped oddments of silk and bright-coloured
satin, and strange, old-fashioned little
bunches of flowers cut from grannie’s bonnets; all
these were the joy of Linda’s heart, whereas expensive
toys and dolls which opened and shut
their eyes, and said “Mamma,” left her cold and
unresponsive.

“She inherits her father’s commercial mind,”
her mother complained fretfully; she was a fretful
person altogether, who never once in all the years
of her married life had managed to forget that she
came of an alleged blue-blooded stock, whereas
plain, good-natured Thomas Dawson could only
boast a line of not very respectable tradespeople
as ancestors, and was proud of it.

“I’m a self-made man,” he would say, thumping
himself on the chest. “I never had any education,
and I’ve managed to do without it. When I die
I shall be worth nearly a hundred thousand
pounds.”

“Thomas is so . . . coarse!” his wife would
complain to her mother. “Of course we all know
that without money life would be impossible——”

(She did not think it necessary to add that
it was because she had found it so impossible
that she had married Thomas Dawson.) “But
surely there is no need to be always talking
about it?”

“Thomas talks about the only thing he understands,”
her mother would answer in her sweet
voice. “And, after all, think how much worse
it would be if he talked about things of which he
was entirely ignorant?”

She herself lived quite happily and comfortably
in the house of her daughter and son-in-law, and
asked no questions.

She had a small and insufficient income of her
own which Thomas generously supplemented,
and at the back of her tolerant, old-fashioned
mind, though she would not have admitted
it for the world, she considered that Thomas
had behaved very foolishly in marrying her
daughter at all.

Mrs. Lovelace rather despised her daughter,
chiefly because of the way she incessantly complained
of Thomas.

Mrs. Lovelace herself had been married to a
gentlemanly blackguard, to whose glaring faults
and many peccadilloes she had kept her eyes shut
through fifteen years of complete unhappiness,
because it was her idea of loyally keeping her
marriage vows, and she had no patience with the
modern wife who walked through the highways
of the world screaming her misery aloud, and
advertising the mistakes which she had made of
her own accord.

“You have no pride, Marion,” she would say
sedately to Thomas’s wife. “When I was a girl
we were always taught to keep our troubles to ourselves.”

“You never had a trouble like Thomas,” Marion
would answer bitterly. “And Linda is just like
her father! Heaven knows what will become of
her.”

“Linda is a very dear child,” Grannie would
answer warmly, and look across the room to where
auburn-haired Linda was sitting on the floor entirely
surrounded by bright-coloured buttons, and dressed
up like a May girl in odd pieces of silk and lace out
of the ribbon box.

“She has her father’s temper,” Mrs. Dawson
said snappily. “I suppose she inherited it with
his red hair.”

Linda looked up at that moment, turning her
pale, rapt face to the two women.

“Ten pink buttons, Grannie,” she said solemnly,
as if the affairs of nations depended upon her calculation
being correct. “And only five blue ones.
I wonder where the other one is?”

Mrs. Lovelace adjusted her spectacles and looked
affectionately at her granddaughter.

“Those blue buttons were on a dress I had when
your mother was a little girl like you are now,” she
said reminiscently. “And one of them got loose,
and I meant to sew it on, but forgot, and so it was
lost. That shows you, Linda, the necessity of
never putting a duty off when it should be done at
once. I hope you will remember that, my dear
child.”

Then she gave a final look at herself in the mirror
over the mantelshelf, duly admired her feathered
hat and expensive furs, and went out to where her
latest extravagance, a grey-lined limousine, waited
at the door.

Mrs. Lovelace rose from her chair and went to
the window, watching till her daughter was out of
sight; then she sighed, and came back to where
Linda squatted happily on the floor, surrounded
by her ribbons and laces.

The child looked up and smiled, her pretty face
framed in a piece of old lace tied under the chin
by a big blue bow.

“Grannie,” she said, solemnly.

“Yes, my treasure?”

Linda scrambled to her feet, looking down at
the strewn floor and the dozens of buttons with
awe and respect in her eyes.

“Grannie,” she said again. “When I grow up
what do you think I shall do?”

“I don’t know, my darling. Wear pretty
clothes like mother, I suppose, and drive about in
a motor-car.”

Chapter II

Linda was fifteen when the crash came that flung
her life into complete disorder and brought about
her father’s death.

The great firm of Dawson and Welby, silk
merchants, collapsed like a house of cards, and
left nothing out of the ruin.

One day to all appearances it was still a wonderful
and flourishing concern, and twenty-four hours
later newsboys were running all over the city bawling
their news through the cold November night.

“Great City failure. Failure of a famous house!
All the news!”

And Thomas Dawson walked into his home late
that night, a broken and beaten man.

His wife was waiting for him, furious and incredulous.
She had heard a great deal that was
true and a great deal more that was not true, and
she rushed upon the stricken man with no thought
for his grief and despair, demanding explanations.

He stood quite still, leaning against the doorway
of the handsome drawing-room in which he had
never felt happy or at home, looking at his wife
as if he had never really seen her before.

“What does it mean?” she demanded hysterically.
“Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you
tell me the truth?” She clutched the lapels of his
coat with her diamond-laden fingers, and poor
Thomas Dawson looked down at those fingers with
dull eyes before he answered.

“It means that I’m a ruined man. I’ve lost
everything.”

He made no attempt to tell her the details, and
she would not have understood or been interested
if he had. He might have tried to defend himself;
he might have blamed the war, or a dishonest
partner, but in the face of her rage and bitterness
it seemed futile.

She asked one last question.

“Does that mean that we give up everything?
This house—the car? That I shall have to sell
my diamonds?”

The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. So
that was all she cared about; she had not one grain
of pity for him who had seen his life’s work go
down in the wreck, not one thought as to how she
might help and comfort him.

“It means that we’ve got nothing,” he said.

Then the storm broke. In her fury she spoke
many truths which she had been afraid to speak
before. She told him that she had only married
him for his money—that she had never loved him;
she told him that he had always disgusted her—his
manner, his voice, his way of bragging; she
said that if it had not been for her mother she
would have left him long ago; she said a thousand
hard, cruel things which went with poor Thomas
Dawson to his grave; and then, when he made his
one broken appeal to her “Marion . . . and I
loved you!” she laughed in his face and went out
of the room, banging the door behind her.

And in the morning she had gone, with a heartless
melodramatic note left behind her pinned to the
quilt on her bed to say that she had left England
with “the only man she had ever loved,” and that
she hoped Thomas would do the decent thing and
divorce her as soon as possible.

There was no mention of her mother, or of Linda;
but she had been careful to take all her diamonds
with her and anything else that was of value.

Thomas and Mrs. Lovelace read the letter together,
and Thomas laughed, such a dreadful
brokenhearted laugh that the old lady lifted her
trembling arms and put them round the neck of
this self-made man who had lost everything at one
cruel blow, and said in her sweet voice, “Oh, my
dear, my poor dear——” and for a moment they
clung together, and both cried, regardless that one
had the blue blood of centuries in her veins and that
the other was the son of a small tallow merchant who
had struggled to make both ends meet in half a
shop off the Mile End road; and then Thomas went
down to the grand library, where stood rows and
rows of books which had never been opened or
read, and an hour later one of the servants found
him lying unconscious on the floor, his wife’s letter
still clasped in his locked hand.

And two days later he died without opening his
eyes or speaking again, and that was the end
of him.

The family lawyer came round and had a long
consultation with Mrs. Lovelace, and after the
perusal of many papers and documents it became
apparent that, when the business was finally wound
up and settled, there would be, perhaps, a hundred
a year out of the ruin for Linda, and that was all.

Mrs. Lovelace lifted a lace handkerchief to her
lips to hide their trembling.

“I have about a hundred a year of my own,”
she said faintly. “So perhaps we can manage
together——”

The lawyer shook his head; things were very
expensive, he murmured in distress; living even
in the humblest way it would be difficult, most
difficult. He looked up and saw the tears on the
old lady’s cheeks, and he put out his hand and took
hers in a kindly clasp.

“Things may be better, who knows?” he said.
“Later on it may be possible to make some arrangement
with the creditors.”

Mrs. Lovelace shook her head; she had no hope
left, but she thanked him for his kindness and
asked him to come and see her again; then she
wiped all traces of tears away, and went upstairs
to Linda.

She found the girl curled up on a wide window-seat
in her grandmother’s bedroom, looking out
into the garden, where rain dripped from the trees
and shrubs, and lay in little puddles on the well-kept
drive.

She looked pale and grave, but she roused herself
when Mrs. Lovelace went to her. “Well, darling?
What does he say?”

Mrs. Lovelace tried to smile.

“Things are not very good, Linda.”

Linda kissed the old lady’s soft cheek, and for a
moment there was silence, then: “Do you think
my mother will come back?” the girl asked in a
strangely hard voice.

Mrs. Lovelace did not answer.

“I hope she doesn’t,” Linda went on, fiercely.
“I hope I never see her again.”

“My darling, you should not say that.”

Linda’s pale face flamed.

“I shall say it,” she said vehemently. “I
never want to see her again. She killed Daddy . . .
if she’d only been kind to him——” She could
not go on, her voice broke, for Linda had loved
her father; in spite of his braggart ways and lack
of education she had loved him whole-heartedly.

Mrs. Lovelace stroked her bent head with a gentle
hand, and presently the girl looked up again, her
eyes wet, but resolute.

“How poor shall we be?” she asked.

“Very poor, I am afraid. We shall only have
about £200 a year between us, and that is very
little nowadays.” Mrs. Lovelace hesitated, then
asked: “What are you thinking about, darling?”

Linda scrambled down from the window-seat;
she stretched her arms above her head with a gesture
of freedom, as if some intolerable burden had
suddenly fallen from her shoulders.

“I am thinking,” said Linda triumphantly,
“that at last I can do what I’ve always longed to
do. I can go into a shop.”

“Go into a shop?” Mrs. Lovelace repeated
her granddaughter’s words as if they held no meaning
for her. “Go into a shop? What shop?
And why?” she asked perplexed.

Linda laughed; she looked flushed and excited.

“To work, of course, darling,” she explained.
“To learn the business. I shall have to work! We
can’t live on two hundred a year—at least, we
can’t live on it and be happy, either of us! Besides,
I must do something or I can’t exist. Oh, Grannie,
don’t look so shocked.”

Mrs. Lovelace sat down weakly in the nearest
chair.

“You don’t know what you are talking about,
Linda,” she said firmly. “You’re over-excited.
You had better go and lie down, and I will bring
you some sal-volatile.”

Linda laughed.

“Darling, don’t be silly. I know quite well
what I’m talking about, and my mind has been
made up for . . . oh, ages! Long before all . . .
this happened. Mother always said that I had
Daddy’s commercial instinct. Well, perhaps she
was right! Anyway, I’m going into business. I’m
not ashamed of being in a shop. I heard somebody
say only the other day that all the money
is in trade nowadays. Why, it was the vicar who
said that if he had a dozen boys they should all
go into trade—no more professions for him! Oh,
Grannie, you know he did.”

Mrs. Lovelace passed her handkerchief agitatedly
across her eyes.

“The vicar has no sons, Linda,” she said faintly.
“If he had he would not have said anything so
foolish. My dear child, let me beg of you to put
this—this absurd idea out of your head. Why, let
me see, how old are you—only fifteen?”

“Sixteen. I’m seventeen in March,” said Linda
firmly.

“It’s a child—a mere baby,” her grandmother
wailed.

Linda knelt down beside her, and looked up into
her face.

“Don’t be a ridiculous darling,” she said severely.
“To do any good in the world one has to start
young! Think what I’ve got to learn!” She
clasped her hands earnestly. “Oh, I’m glad
I’m not any older—it gives me such a lot of time.”

She sat back on her heels and stared before her
with earnest eyes.

“I’ve thought it all out,” she announced. “I
shall change my name for yours. I shall call
myself Linda Lovelace! It’s such a suitable name,
don’t you think, Grannie? Because, of course, I
shall go into a draper’s shop. I’ve always meant to—ever
since the days when I played with your
ribbon box, it’s been in my mind that some day
I would go into a real shop and serve real people
with real yards of lovely lace and ribbons!” She
sprang to her feet excitedly.

“Grannie! Do you remember that little old
song you taught me when I was quite tiny:

“Ladies with blue eyes, and ladies with true eyes—

Listen, oh list to my cry—

Ribbons and laces for sweet pretty faces;

Oh! come to the market and buy.”

Mrs. Lovelace burst into tears.

“And I am to blame for it all,” she sobbed.
“Linda, you will break my heart.”

Linda stood very erect, her eyes shining.

“No, I shall make you proud of me,” she said
confidently.

She looked so young, and yet somehow so capable
as she stood there, her slim young body drawn up
to its full height, her hands clenched determinedly.

“So, like her father,” Mrs. Dawson would have
wailed if she had been there. “He was always
a pig-headed, obstinate man. I never could do
anything with him.”

She could have twisted the poor man round her
little finger at one time, if she had ever troubled
sufficiently to try; it was only afterwards, when he
realised the tragedy of his marriage, that he had
grown hard and obstinate.

So there was another consultation between Mrs.
Lovelace and the family lawyer, whose name was
Stern, a name which to Mrs. Lovelace appeared
strangely unsuitable, seeing that he immediately
agreed with Linda that it would be a splendid thing
for her to find some occupation, and promised to
make inquiries for her.

“I should have liked to live in,” Linda told him
excitedly, “only, of course, there’s Grannie—and
I can’t leave her.”

“Of course not—exactly,” Mr. Stern agreed,
and looked with admiration at this determined
young person who had so easily brought him round
to her point of view. Only sixteen, he was thinking!
She might have been nineteen, at least.

“I don’t know where you have found out so
much about the shops,” Mrs. Lovelace complained
when he had gone. “Did you read it in a book?”

“Mary had a sister in Lorne and Dodwell’s,”
Linda explained coolly, “and she told me all about
it. She was in hosiery.”

Mary was a parlour-maid whom Mrs. Dawson
had dismissed in a fit of temper and had regretted
doing so ever after.

“Hosiery!” said Mrs. Lovelace, faintly.

“Yes,” Linda nodded. She had long since
made up her mind that the best and only way to
manage her grandmother, and overrule her
objections, would be to ignore them. “She sold
lovely silk stockings, Grannie, with open-work
clocks as fine as a spider’s web—something like the
old lace in your ribbon box; such beautiful work,”
she added almost reverently.

Mrs. Lovelace produced her smelling-salts; in
her heart she was enormously proud of her granddaughter’s
pluck and determination, but in her
young days it had always been the correct thing to
show signs of faintness at any ultra-modern idea,
and she could not as yet quite free herself of old
customs and habits.

Finding she was unobserved, however, she put
the stopper back into the smelling-bottle and
sighed resignedly.

“I thought you were going for a walk,” she said,
after a moment. “It’s nice and sunny, and we
get so little sunshine.”

Linda glanced towards the window.

“I’ll go now,” she said. She put on her hat and
walked down the road, thinking of the future all
the time, and stopping every few yards to look in
at a shop window.

She and Mrs. Lovelace were still living in the
big house in Kensington which Thomas Dawson
had bought and redecorated with such pride, because
for the present nothing had been decided,
and the affairs of the business were still unsettled.

“It will be a cruel wrench having to leave,” Mrs.
Lovelace said often, but Linda did not think so.
She had very few happy memories of the house,
and a great many unhappy ones. She thought
it would be delightful to start life all over again
and try and forget the past.

Her thoughts were full of him as she walked
along; she had never realised until his death how
tragic his life must have been.

As a child she had only known him as a kind man
with a red face and a loud voice, who laughed a
great deal, but lately, from little things she had
heard and discovered for herself, she knew that his
laughter must very often have rung hollow, and
that he could never really have been happy at all.
Tears swam into her eyes, blinding her as she turned
to cross the road, so that she hardly saw where she
was going, or realised that a high-powered car
was bearing swiftly down upon her till she felt her
shoulder grabbed by a strong hand, and she was
unceremoniously dragged back on to the path.

“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” a
man’s voice demanded angrily. “You might
have been killed,” and she looked up, flushed
and indignant, into a pair of grey eyes that were
scowling fiercely at her from beneath rather bushy
brows.

“You might have been run over,” their owner
said again more quietly. “Do you always walk
about the streets dreaming?” Then suddenly
he smiled, and when he smiled he looked quite
young and jolly, so that involuntarily Linda smiled
too, and forgot her annoyance.

“I wasn’t dreaming. I was thinking,” she
corrected him gravely, and then as an after-thought
she added, “Thank you, if you saved my life.”

He laughed. “Well, it wasn’t anything to
write to the papers about,” he said cheerily. “But
the car was coming rather quickly, and you might
have been knocked down. . . . Hullo, it’s going
to rain!”

The sunshine had all disappeared, and even as
the man spoke, without any warning, a sudden
shower came spattering down, making people run
to right and left for shelter.

“There’s a doorway here,” the man said: he
glanced at Linda, and then up at the sky. “It
won’t last,” he added, and led the way under the
shelter of a porch just behind them.

Linda followed and stood rather shyly beside
him, watching the raindrops dancing down on the
pavement.

“Like a spring shower,” said the man.

“Yes.” She glanced up at him interestedly.
He was not at all good looking, in fact, she
was not at all sure that she did not consider
him rather ugly, except when he smiled, and
then his face seemed to light up in the most
unexpected fashion.

He was tall and rather thin, and the curiously
bushy eyebrows made him look much older than
he really was, and much more severe.

But he had nice grey eyes, and a well-cut mouth
and chin, and what little Linda could see of his
hair beneath his soft grey hat was dark.

The rain showed no sign of diminishing.

“It’s going to last,” the man said disgustedly;
he looked at Linda again, “Do you live far away?”

“No. I can get a bus.”

He smiled amusedly.

“Can you? I doubt it. Look at the crowd
fighting for them now.”

He glanced across the road to where a struggling
mass of men and women were pushing and jostling
one another to get on to an omnibus out of the
pelting rain.

“Better stay here for a little while and wait,” he
advised.

“Very well.”

Linda did not mind; she was not in a hurry to
get home, and she was a girl who could always
find plenty of amusement in watching the people
around her.

Presently she asked politely, mindful of her
companion’s previous consideration for her:

“Have you far to go to get home?”

He laughed. “Well, I don’t know about home—but
I haven’t far to go to my place of business,”
he explained. “You see, I’m down the road in
Lorne and Dodwell’s, the drapers.”

Linda’s face flushed with excitement.

It seemed to her that providence must have sent
this man straight into her life to help her towards
the goal of her great ambition; she caught at
the sleeve of his coat eagerly as she repeated his
words.

“In Lorne and Dodwell’s! Oh, how perfectly
lovely!”

“Lovely!” He looked intensely amused. “I
don’t know that I’ve ever considered it very lovely,”
he submitted drily.

“Grannie says that people never appreciate a
thing when they have got it,” Linda told him
primly. “But it’s my ambition to go into a
draper’s shop—not that I shall ever be lucky to
get into such a splendid one as yours,” she added
regretfully, then her face brightened again. “What
department are you in?” she asked.

He laughed outright at that.

“Well, I’m not exactly in any department,” he
said rather dubiously, “though I know practically
the whole business. You see——” he hesitated,
then he added, “you see I happen to be Robert
Lorne.”

“Oh!” Linda’s hand fell from his sleeve, and
she flushed crimson. “Oh, I beg your pardon!
I never thought . . . never guessed.”

“Of course not, how could you?” he answered
easily. “I don’t flatter myself that I’m as well
known as all that. . . . And so it’s your ambition
to go into a shop, is it?”

“Yes. You see, I’ve got to work—my father
died and left us without much money, so I must
work; and the only thing I should care to do would
be to go into a shop.” She smiled suddenly,
showing a little dimple at the corner of her
mouth. “Mother used to say it was the commercial
instinct coming out,” she told him in
friendly fashion.

“The commercial instinct is not at all a bad
thing to have nowadays,” young Lorne said; he
looked at her consideringly for a moment, then,
“You’re rather young, aren’t you?” he asked
hesitatingly.

Linda told a white lie, feeling entirely justified.

“I’m seventeen.”

“Really!” He looked surprised. “I should
not have thought you were so much. However——”
He hesitated again, then asked abruptly: “What
do your people think of . . . of this idea of
yours?”

“There is only Grannie to think anything at all,”
Linda said rather sadly. “Grannie and Mr. Stern—he’s
the lawyer, but he thinks it’s quite right.
He thinks if people are very keen on anything they
should be allowed to do it.”

“And old-fashioned ideas are not bad things to
have nowadays, either,” young Lorne said.

“No, I suppose not.” Linda looked anxiously
up at the sky, which was clearing very quickly,
showing a faint gleam of sunshine. She wished
with all her heart that it would go on raining, so
that she could stay here and ask this interesting
man some more about his wonderful business, but
apparently he was anxious to go, for he stepped
out on to the path.

“The rain has stopped. I must be getting
along.”

Linda stifled a regretful sigh; such an opportunity
would never occur again she was sure, and
she was trying to summon enough courage to ask
if he could not possibly help her towards the fulfilment
of her ambition, when he said diffidently:—

“I wonder if you would care to come along and
see my uncle? He’s the head of the firm, you
know, and if you told him what you have just told
me. . . .”

She gave a little broken cry of delight.

“Oh, could I? May I?—wouldn’t he mind?”

“I am sure he would be delighted,” Robert Lorne
said rather stiffly.

He thought this girl very amusing, and for her
age a most determined young person, and he
thought it would be interesting to see what impression
she made on his uncle, for Samuel
Lorne was admitted to be one of the hardest-headed
men of business who ever made his way unaided
through life, and also the keenest judge of character.

So together he and Linda crossed the muddy
road and walked the few yards to the big entrance
door of Lorne and Dodwell’s, and with a fast-beating
heart she followed him through the softly carpeted
departments and down a long passage till they came
to a door with a frosted glass pane with the
word “Private” written across it and underneath
the two magical names—

“Mr. Samuel Lorne,

Mr. Robert Lorne.”

Her companion stopped then and looked down
at her. “You’ve no need to be afraid,” he said,
mistaking the flush on her cheeks for nervousness,
and Linda shook her head as she answered: “I’m
not a bit afraid, thank you.”

Robert Lorne said: “Oh, I see,” rather dryly,
and opened the door, standing back for her to pass
through.

An elderly man with white hair and a thin,
parchment-like face sat at a table with a large cup
of tea beside him.

At first glance he looked kindly and mild enough,
but when he raised his eyes even Linda’s youthful
temerity received a check, for beneath the beetling
brows which were so like his nephew’s his eyes were
as keen as steel gimlets, and Linda had the uncomfortable
feeling that at one glance he had seen
right through her, and knew just how anxious
and eager she was to make a good impression upon
him.

And then he said, “Well!” in a gruff, unfriendly
voice, and looked at his nephew. “Well, what is
it?” he said again.

Robert drew a chair forward for Linda, but
she was too excited to sit down; she stood there
twisting her hands together, her eyes bright with
eagerness, while he explained the reason of her
visit.

“I know you always believe in encouraging
youthful enterprise,” he finished up, and there
was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he looked
at the elder man. “So I ventured to bring Miss. . . .”
He turned to Linda. “By the way,
what is your name?” he asked.

Linda told him promptly.

“Linda Lovelace”—and the man at the table
grunted and said “Humph! A good name for
our business,” and for a moment he stared hard
at Linda silently. Then he said again, “What’s
your father?”

“He’s dead.”

The heavy brows almost met in a frown.

“I didn’t ask where he was. I asked what he
was!”

“He was a partner in Dawson and Welby, the
silk merchants,” Linda told him with a touch of
pride.

“Dawson and Welby!” His scowl deepened.
“Pooh! there was nobody of the name of Lovelace
in that unfortunate firm.”

Tears rose to Linda’s eyes.

“His name was Dawson,” she explained. “My
mother’s maiden name was Lovelace, and as I’ve
got to work for my living now, I thought I would
take it, as I like it better than Dawson.”

“I see.” Mr. Lorne finished his tea, and turned
his chair round in order to get a better view of her.
“So you’re poor Dawson’s daughter, eh?” he
asked.

“Yes.”

“I knew your father very well.” His voice was
more kindly. “I knew him well, and sympathised
with his failure, which was due to no fault of
his. He was the one straight man in a gang of
scoundrels.”

“Yes,” said Linda gratefully: she liked him for
speaking so kindly of her father.

“But because I knew him, that will be no reason
for treating you any differently to the rest of my
staff—always supposing I give you a trial,” the
old man went on. “You’ll have to start at the
bottom of the ladder and work your way up, as I
had to—as my nephew here had to—as anyone
who is worth their salt can do!”

“Yes,” said Linda.

There was another silence, then Samuel Lorne
looked at his nephew.

“Well, supposing we give the little girl a
chance?” he suggested.

Looking back on that afternoon it always seemed
like a dream to Linda—a dream from the moment
when Robert Lorne’s hand dragged her back to
safety from the speeding motor-car, till the
moment when she walked out of his uncle’s office
with a promise of a start in the great firm of Lorne
and Dodwell at the astounding salary of fifteen
shillings a week and her lunch and tea.

Robert Lorne escorted her back to the street
door, and shook hands with her solemnly; but
there was a twinkle in his eyes beneath their heavy
brows, and he had hard work to check a smile
when she turned impulsively to him at the last
moment to ask—

“Mr. Lorne really means it, doesn’t he? I
really have been given the post, haven’t I?”

“My uncle is a man of his word, Miss Lovelace,”
Robert Lorne answered. She gave a great sigh of
relief.

“Yes, I knew he was,” she said, and a moment
later she had disappeared through the heavy swing
doors and was speeding away down the street.

Her face felt hot, and her heart was beating fast
with excitement as she burst into her grandmother’s
drawing-room.

“It’s happened! I’ve done it! They’ve engaged
me, and I start on Monday morning. Fifteen
shillings a week, Grannie, and lunch and tea. In
Lorne and Dodwell’s—Mr. Lorne himself engaged
me. I met him in the rain—the nephew I mean,
not the uncle—and I told him I wanted to go into a
shop, and he said if I liked I could go to see his
uncle, and the uncle’s a director—and I went to
the office, and he knew father! and I told him why
I’ve changed my name—and he said because of
that I shouldn’t have any favouritism shown, and
he was awfully nice, and they both shook hands
with me, and. . . .” She flung her arms round
the old lady’s neck and kissed her rapturously.
“Oh, isn’t it perfectly wonderful.”

Mrs. Lovelace extricated herself from her granddaughter’s
arms and gasped.

“My dear child, what are you talking about?”
she objected in alarm. “I haven’t understood
one word, and I’ve only heard about two. Sit
down and take off your hat and coat, and get your
breath. Have you got wet? You took no umbrella,
I know——” She passed an anxious hand
over the girl’s shoulders. “Did you stand up
for the shower? Oh, my dear, do sit down quietly,
and get your breath.”

Linda obeyed with an effort; she could not understand
why the whole world was not as excited
about her afternoon’s adventure as she was, but
she managed to control herself, and tell Mrs. Lovelace
with more or less clearness exactly what had
happened.

“And I start on Monday morning,” she added
again breathlessly.

Mrs. Lovelace felt with a white, helpless hand
for her smelling salts. “And . . . have these
two gentlemen given you any guarantee of their
integrity?” she asked faintly.

Linda laughed.

“Oh, darling, don’t behave as if we came out
of the Ark,” she objected.

“Mr. Lorne is a most wonderful man, and I love
him already. He’s got eyes like the sparks that
come off an anvil, and brows like this——” and
she screwed her sweet face up into a very bad
imitation of old Samuel Lorne’s.

“And—the nephew?” Mrs. Lovelace asked
with the deadly calm of a great despair. “Do you
love him also, may I ask?”

Linda waved an airy hand.

“Oh, he’s only quite young, and so he doesn’t
count,” she explained. “He must be quite a
junior partner—at least, his name came second on
the office door.”

Mrs. Lovelace applied a handkerchief to her eyes.

“I don’t know what your poor father would
say,” she wept.

Linda stood up. She looked very independent
and confident, and her eyes were almost fierce.

“He’d say—he’d say that he was proud of me,”
she said in a voice that was not quite steady. “I
know that’s what poor Daddy would say.”

“And if anything happens and you do not like
the life——” her grandmother said faintly. “If
anything happens that you cannot stand the hard
work——”

“Darling, it won’t be hard! and there are heaps
of other girls there, and they can’t all be so much
stronger than I am.”

“But the continual standing!” Mrs. Lovelace
wailed. “I have so often felt sorry for the poor
girls. Linda, if anything happens to you, what
will become of me?”

“Nothing will happen, except that some day I
hope I shall have a business of my own,” Linda said
confidently. “Oh, Grannie, how can you sit there
and cry, when I thought you’d be so proud and
pleased?”

But for some minutes Mrs. Lovelace was inconsolable.

“I had such plans for you. I hoped you would
be presented at Court, and make a great marriage,”
she sobbed, for the first time speaking of the
cherished ambitions she had dreamed of for her
darling.

Linda turned away, and for a moment there was
silence; then she said in a firm little voice that
held a strong note like her father’s: “Grannie,
I haven’t any ambitions like that. I hate money
that is only used to have what people call a good
time—money that is used as—as mother used it—for
frocks and diamonds and—and trying to go to
places where she wasn’t wanted, and to know
people who didn’t want to know her except for
what she’d got. Father was a self-made man, and
that’s something to be proud of. It wasn’t his
fault that he failed, poor darling—why, even Mr.
Lorne said that he was the one straight man in a
gang of scoundrels. . . .” Her voice faltered
but she went on again bravely.

“I’m going to make my own way as he did!
and as for a great marriage!” she laughed with
youthful scorn, “well, I never want to get married
at all, if it’s going to be like Daddy’s was——”

“All women are not bad,” Mrs. Lovelace averred.
“And there must be many happy marriages in the
world. Some husbands are goodness itself to their
wives.”

Linda turned and looked at her steadily.

“Was yours?” she asked.

Mrs. Lovelace tried to temporise.

“Your grandfather was a very difficult man,
my dear. He took a great deal of understanding.
I cannot truthfully say that we were always happy—nobody
can expect to be always happy; but he
had his good points.”

Linda began to laugh.

“Oh, Grannie; and I heard you say once that
the day you most liked him was the day he
died.”

A faint flush rose to the old lady’s cheek, and
she held her head high with dignity.

“I think you are speaking of something you
are far too young to understand,” she complained,
and sailed out of the room with a great rustling of
silk skirts.

Linda grew grave when she was alone again.
She crossed to the mantelshelf and looked at herself
in a mirror which hung above it.

It had so often reflected her mother’s beauty
in its settings of expensive frocks and hats, and
for a moment a pang of remorse touched the girl’s
heart as she thought of her.

Where was she now? And what was she doing?
So little was known of the man with whom she
had made her heartless flight. Mr. Stern had told
Mrs. Lovelace that beyond the fact that he had
had a bad reputation and no money, nothing had
been discovered about him, and the old lady had
always rather shrunk from the subject.

“I wonder if I shall ever see her again,” was
the thought in Linda’s mind as she looked at her
own grave reflection; and then, “And I wonder
if she is happy.”

Happiness was such a great thing, and even to
her youth there seemed little enough of it in the
world, and she remembered that she had once heard
Mr. Stern say that people would find life easier
if they only had more to occupy their time.

“Work! That’s the thing to make life worth
while,” he had told her. “You remember that,
my dear. Work well, then you’ll be able to play
well, and then you’ll be happy.”

“And I will be happy, I will,” Linda told herself
determinedly. “I will make a success of my life,
and do something that is worth while.”

And in her room overheard Mrs. Lovelace, wiping
away her tears and trying to believe that everything
was for the best no matter how much of a mistake
it might seem at first, heard Linda’s happy voice
singing a snatch of the old song which she had
taught her as a small child:

“Ladies with blue eyes, and ladies with true eyes,

Listen, oh list to my cry!

Ribbons and laces for sweet pretty faces,

Oh, come to the market and buy!”

“If only she is going to be happy, that’s all I
care about,” the old lady told herself passionately.
“If only she is going to be happy.”

Chapter III

Linda started work in Lorne and Dodwell’s on
the Monday morning as had been arranged, and for
the first few days she found life the most bewildering
and strange thing.

The business into which she had been so eager
to enter, proved at first to be anything but a bed
of roses.

“I never would have believed I could be so
stupid,” she told Mrs. Lovelace almost in tears.
“It’s taken all the conceit out of me!” She
laughed with the tears in her eyes. “Not that it
isn’t perfectly lovely all the same,” she added
breathlessly as she saw the anxiety in her grandmother’s
face.

“If you don’t like it——” the old lady faltered
and Linda squared her shoulders.

“Don’t like it! Of course I do! It’s only that
it’s a little strange just at first.”

The strangest part of it all, although she hardly
liked to admit it even to herself, was the feeling
that she was only one of a great organisation.
There were so many girls and women employed
in Lorne and Dodwell’s, all of whom seemed more
important than she did, that the feeling that she
was, after all, of very small moment, gave her a
new sense of humility.

During her interview with Mr. Samuel Lorne
she had felt important and of real necessity to the
firm, but half an hour of routine work disillusioned
her.

Mr. Robert Lorne passed her in the lace
department on the first morning with only the
vaguest acknowledgment, and she had had the
uncomfortable feeling that he did not even remember
her.

For a moment she felt hurt, then she laughed
at herself; after all, why should he remember her,
just because they had had a few moments’ chat
together in the rain, and because he had known
her father?

“Do you like being here?” she asked the
assistant in whose charge she had been placed,
during a slack moment, when they found themselves
alone. Miss Gillet, who had at first been rather
inclined to patronise Linda, unbent a little at
the question.

She was rather haughty in manner, and Linda
had watched with awe while she waited on an old
lady with gold pince-nez and a waving plume in her
bonnet, and it had almost seemed to her that Miss
Gillet was the more aristocratic of the two, until
she had been told that the old lady was the Countess
of Star. It was during the moment following this
that she had ventured upon her question.

“Do you like being here?”

Miss Gillet glanced at herself in a mirror, and
adjusted a lock of perfectly waved hair before she
answered.

“Does anyone like working for one’s living?”

“I think I do,” Linda answered quite seriously,
and then, drawing a step nearer, she asked interestedly:
“And was that lady really the Countess
of Star?”

Miss Gillet pursed up her lips in disapproval.

“It is not good form to discuss the customers,
Miss Lovelace,” she said frigidly.

“Oh!” Linda flushed in embarrassment.

“I was only so interested,” she apologised.
“You see, I’ve never been so close to a Countess
before.”

She remembered her mother’s unavailing struggles
to get back into what she had always called “My
own set”; remembered, too, that her father had
been the chief drawback, for, in spite of the money
he had at one time possessed, he would never try
to make himself popular with his wife’s friends.

“They only want you for what you’ve got,” he
often said in his downright, almost brutal fashion.
“If you lost your money, or, at least, if I lost
mine, do you think they’d look at you? Not
much they wouldn’t.”

The memory brought a sadness to her face, and
Miss Gillet, seeing it, relented a little.

“You’re young, and new to the business,” she
said more kindly. “Live and learn is a good
motto. Yes—that was the Countess of Star.”
She lowered her voice as she added, “And the
young lady with her was Miss Fernie, the Countess’s
companion.”

“Oh!” Linda cast eager eyes across the lace
and ribbon counter to catch another glimpse of the
interesting client, but she had already moved out
of sight.

“If you will pay attention,” Miss Gillet said in
her most businesslike tone of voice once more, “I
will show you the new filet lace that came this
morning. The second box on your left—no, the
second!”

Linda obeyed instructions eagerly; she thought
the lace was the most delicate and beautiful she
had ever seen; she touched it with fingers that
were almost reverent.

“Isn’t it perfectly lovely!” she whispered.

Miss Gillet raised indifferent brows.

“It is a very fine texture,” she said carelessly.

Then she smiled, with one of her swift changes
from stiff unapproachability to friendliness.
“When you have been in this business as long as
I have, you will be less enthusiastic,” she said.

“I thought perhaps I might be more
enthusiastic,” Linda ventured, whereupon Miss
Gillet froze again and bade her sharply not to
chatter so much.

“But she’s nice really; she’s quite nice!” so a
girl who sat next to Linda at lunch informed her
in reply to a tentative question. “You may
think she’s rather a tartar, we all do to start with;
but, really, she’s ever so kind. Why”—she lowered
her voice—“last winter, when I was ill, she came
round nearly every day to see me, and brought
flowers or fruit; and it isn’t everyone who’ll do that.”

“I think she’s very smart,” Linda said admiringly.

The other girl, who’s name, so she informed
Linda, was Nelly Sweet, shrugged her slim shoulders.

“Oh, she’s smart enough, but she’s not very
good-looking, is she?”

“I think her hair is lovely,” Linda said rather
defensively.

Nelly Sweet was at the handkerchief counter,
and therefore Linda felt it was her duty to stick up
for ribbons and laces.

Nelly chuckled.

“Lovely! Why it’s dyed,” she whispered.

Linda looked angry. “Well, anyway,” she
ventured after a moment, “I don’t know that it
matters much, if she’s as kind as you say she is.”

Nelly blushed.

“No! it was horrid of me to say that,” she said
generously. “As you say, what does it matter?”
She looked at Linda quizzically. “I should like
to be friends with you,” she blurted out then.
“What’s your name?”

Linda told her.

Lunch was ended at that moment, but as she
rose to leave the table, Nelly Sweet said quickly:

“Wait for me at six. I’ll walk home with
you.”

Linda was late home that evening, and when at
last she walked into the house, Mrs. Lovelace met
her agitatedly at the door.

“Oh, my dear! I was so anxious! What has
happened? I have been imagining all sorts of
things.”

Linda laughed as she kissed her.

“Sorry, dear! Am I late? I didn’t know what
the time was.” She took off her hat, and ruffled
her hair. “Grannie! I’ve made a friend.”

“A friend, dear?”

“Yes.” Linda sat down at the table and began
to pour out tea. Late dinner was a meal dispensed
with now for economy’s sake, and “high tea”
had taken its place.

“All my life I’ve been used to my dinner at
night,” Mrs. Lovelace protested at first. “But,
of course, if we really can’t afford it any longer——”

“I’m afraid we can’t dear,” Linda said briskly.
“And after all, what does it matter?”

So she poured out tea, and cut bread and butter
happily enough as she talked away.

“She’s in the handkerchief department, and
her name is Nelly Sweet, and she’s ever so pretty,
and she’s got short curly hair.”

“Yes, I think it does,” she admitted. “And
she was on the stage once, but she was no good at
it, so she went into Lorne and Dodwell’s instead.
She lives in rooms with another girl—a girl named
Joan Astley—down the Fulham Road”—she
hesitated—“I don’t think I like the other girl,” she
added slowly.

Mrs. Lovelace shivered distastefully.

“The Fulham Road! Isn’t that rather a—poor
neighbourhood?” she asked.

“Some of it’s awful,” Linda admitted. “But
it’s all they can afford; and it’s all we shall be
able to afford, I’m afraid, darling, when we leave
here.”

The old lady’s face quivered a little, but she
made no reply.

“I’m going to bring Nelly to see you one day,”
Linda went on. “I’ve told her all about you,
and she’s longing to see you. She’s got a grandmother
herself, and she loves her——” she looked
across the table with affectionate eyes. “Almost
as much as I love you,” she added.

Mrs. Lovelace put down her teacup with a hand
that was not quite steady. “Linda! Mr. Stern
has been here this afternoon, and—the house is
sold.”

“At last! Oh, what a relief.” Linda drew a
long breath of thankfulness. “Won’t it be lovely
to get out of it? Why—Grannie——”

Mrs. Lovelace had covered her face with her
slender hands.

“You are so young,” she said brokenly.
“You’ve got all your life before you; but I’m an
old woman, and—to me it’s like the end of everything
I have ever known.”

“Grannie!” Linda left the table, and knelt
down beside her, her face flushed with pity and
distress.

“Oh, don’t say that! don’t!” she pleaded.
“We’re going to be so happy. I’m going to work
so hard. We can have a little home of our own—or
rooms! If we could get rooms like Nelly’s,
we could be quite happy. There is such a nice
landlady——”

Mrs. Lovelace wiped her tears away.

“I’m not brave like you, my dear,” she said,
trying to smile. “And to me the world seems all
upside down—all upside down!”

Linda would not take her seriously; she laughed
and joked, and determinedly changed the subject,
rattling on about the incidents of the day, till
Mrs. Lovelace smiled again and forgot her troubles.

But at night when Linda was brushing her hair
in her own room her grandmother’s words suddenly
came back to her.

“I’m an old woman—and to me it’s like the
end of everything.”

It was true! She was old! And sudden fear
filled the girl’s heart.

If Mrs. Lovelace died! What would become
of her? She would be all alone.

She tried in vain to shake away the foreboding.

Why should Mrs. Lovelace die? She would live
for many more years yet. Of course, it would seem
strange to her at first, to live in small rooms, and
perhaps in a neighbourhood like the Fulham
Road. . . .

She tried to picture her grandmother in the
rooms to which Nelly Sweet had taken her that
afternoon. They were like the rooms in a doll’s
house! and very cheaply furnished. All right for
anyone young and strong enough to fight a way
through the world and conquer; but for anyone old
and frail who had been used to a sheltered life of
luxury, how impossible.

And again the old thought flashed into Linda’s
mind.

“If only I could be quick and make some money
for her! If only I were well off!”

As it was, she would probably have to wait years
and years before she was in any position worth
speaking about—years and years, and by that
time—— She would not allow herself to think
what tragic thing might have happened by then.
She crept into bed, and drew the clothes over her
head.

But the following day she spoke of her thought
to Nelly Sweet.

“Wouldn’t it be fine to be rich?”

“Rich!” Nelly wrinkled up her pretty nose.
“I never think about it because I know it’s no
good,” she said philosophically.

“Why not?” Linda asked. “Lots of women
make money! Lots of women run their own
businesses.”

Nelly laughed.

“Oh, is that your ambition?” she said teasingly.

Linda shook her head.

“No, it isn’t! I’ve never even thought about
it, but all the same, I should like to,” she added
slowly.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, very often,”
Nelly said lightly. She was not a very serious
person.

She took life very much as it came, enjoying
everything, envying nobody.

“Gillet’s cute, you know!” she said suddenly.
Linda looked a little shocked; she had not yet
got used to the casual way in which the girls referred
to the heads of departments when they were not
present. “Gillet’s cute,” Nelly said again. “She
said that you had ambitious eyes!” Linda was not
sure if it was a compliment or not.

Nelly laughed. “That’s what she said, and she’s
generally right.”

The two girls were coming down from lunch then,
and Nelly suddenly caught Linda’s arm in an eager
little grip. “Look! there’s the Black Prince, as
we call him. No—you’re looking the wrong way—over
there by the door.”

Linda looked quickly round. A tall young man
with rather a bored face was standing by the main
entrance, impatiently tapping his cane against
an immaculately shod foot.

He was exceedingly good looking in a rather
swarthy way, and Nelly’s name of “the Black
Prince” seemed to suit him admirably.

“Who is he?” Linda asked; she was not
particularly interested.

“His real name is Andrew Lincoln,” Nelly
explained in an undertone. “He’s an Honourable
or something. I’m not quite sure about his
title—I always get muddled. Anyway, he’s the
Countess of Star’s nephew, and he’s rich—oh! ever
so rich.”

Linda stifled a sigh.

Things were not very fairly divided in this world,
she thought, with a shade of envy. Why was it
that some people had so much and others so little,
so very little! not even enough to keep a dear,
beloved grandmother in comfort for the rest of her
short life.

She looked at the Black Prince rather wistfully
and at that moment, as if conscious of her gaze,
he turned, and their eyes met.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the faintest
smile crossed his dark face and, to her intense
annoyance, a wave of embarrassed colour ran up
from Linda’s chin to her brow.

Nelly Sweet, noticing it, squeezed Linda’s arm.

“There you are! He smiles at any girl,” she
said with a sort of amused scorn, and at the same
moment one of the shop-walkers, a precise-looking
person in an immaculately-fitting frock-coat, came
across to them.

“We’ve just come down from lunch,” she
answered in rather a subdued tone of voice, and,
turning, she fled precipitately, leaving Linda to
follow as best she could.

“Who was that?” Linda asked breathlessly,
overtaking her.

Nelly tossed her head.

“Oh, that’s old Flynn! He’s been here since the
flood,” she explained, rather inelegantly. “He
doesn’t like me—and I don’t like him, if it comes
to that.”

“I thought he looked rather nice,” Linda submitted
doubtfully.

Nelly laughed. “You’re welcome,” she said
laconically, and disappeared behind her own handkerchief
counter.

Linda thought quite a lot about the Black Prince
during the afternoon; there had been something
about him that had strangely attracted her; something
in his smile, a slow, unknown quantity which
she had never met before, and which had stirred
her pulses in a new, frightened way.

“He only smiled at me because I was a shopgirl,”
she thought, and wondered how he behaved
with the girls of his own circle.

“I’ve spoken to you twice, Miss Lovelace,” Miss
Gillet said in her sharp way, “and apparently you
have not heard me. Are you dreaming, or have
you already lost interest in your work?”

Linda apologised hurriedly, and for the rest of
the afternoon she worked with great energy,
but at tea-time that evening she said to her
grandmother:

“There was a countess in Lorne and Dodwell’s
this afternoon.”

Mrs. Lovelace smiled.

“I expect that is a very ordinary occurrence,
Linda,” she said gently. “Lorne and Dodwell’s
must have most of the best people as customers.”

“She was the Countess of Star,” Linda told
her thoughtfully.

Mrs. Lovelace looked rather startled.

“I knew her—slightly—years ago,” she said in
her dignified way. “A very charming woman
she was in those days. Let me see, she must
be about my own age.”

“She is very handsome,” Linda said.

“She came of a handsome family,” Mrs. Lovelace
answered. “I remember her marriage quite well.
Star was much older than she, and it was a great
regret to them both that they never had any
children. When her husband died the title passed
to his brother.”

“She has a nephew,” Linda said unthinkingly.
“I think he is an Honourable——”

A shade of anxiety crossed the old lady’s face.

“You seem to have gained a great deal of
information to-day, my dear,” she protested.

Linda laughed, though her colour rose.

“It’s only what the other girls tell me—what
Nelly Sweet tells me.”

“I should like to meet this Miss Sweet,” Mrs.
Lovelace said after a moment. “I should like to
judge for myself whether she is a fit companion
and friend for you.”

Linda laughed, half in amusement, half vexation.

“Oh, Grannie, darling! As if I’m not old enough
to choose for myself!” she protested. “If I’m old
enough to go to business, I must be old enough to
make my own friends.”

Mrs. Lovelace sighed.

“And that remark brings it all back to my
original point. Am I right in allowing you to do
this work at all?”

Linda frowned.

“Dearest, haven’t we settled all that long enough
ago?”

She rose from the table rather impatiently; she
was tired and her head ached.

She might have said more than would have been
wise, but she was prevented by a ring at the bell.

The woman who cleaned the house and looked
after Mrs. Lovelace during the day had gone, so
Linda went down to open the door, and to her
surprise she found Nelly Sweet there.

“You! How did you find me?” she asked in
amazement.

Nelly laughed.

“I got your address from Gillet,” she said frankly.
“I wanted to see you, and it seemed the only way.
I looked for you at six but you’d gone, so, as it’s
important, I came round.” She hesitated, then
asked, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“Of course; please come in. My grandmother’s
upstairs; we were talking about you a moment
ago.”

She led the way to the sitting-room, which was
the only one they used now, and opened the door.

“Grannie, we were talking about my friend
Nelly Sweet—here she is!”

Mrs. Lovelace rose from her chair; her faded eyes
searched Nelly’s bright face with almost painful
intensity, then she held out her hand. “How do
you do? I am pleased to meet you,” she said
simply. Nelly beamed and gushed.

“I’m pleased to meet you too. I’ve heard an
awful lot about you from Linda.” She paused,
then seemed to realise she was not saying quite
the right thing, and rushed on in embarrassment:
“I say, what a big house you’ve got! I’d no idea
you were such a swell, Linda.”

She did not mean to be offensive, but Mrs.
Lovelace flushed sensitively. “This is our house no
longer, Miss Sweet,” she said in her simple, dignified
way. “Linda and I have only stayed on here till
it was sold. We are leaving as soon as we can find
suitable rooms.”

Nelly broke out again eagerly.

“I know some in the Fulham Road—awfully
nice ones. They’re over a grocer’s shop, but . . .”
her face fell. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to
live over a grocer’s shop?” she submitted
doubtfully.

Linda glanced at her grandmother deprecatingly.

“Beggars cannot afford to be choosers,” Mrs.
Lovelace said.

“No, of course not!” Nelly’s eyes were roaming
round the room, full of curiosity. She had vaguely
recognised from the first that Linda was somehow
different from the average girl who came to Lorne
and Dodwell’s, but she had not expected to find
her in a house like this, or with a grandmother
who looked as if she had stepped straight out of
an oil-painting. Nelly’s own grandmother had
been a working woman who wore her fringe in curlers
from Monday morning till the following Saturday
night, and whose language had not always been
quite choice.

“What did you want to see me about?” Linda
broke in. She could see that Nelly was not making
a good impression on Mrs. Lovelace, and she felt
annoyed, realising that if only Nelly would be her
natural self instead of putting on an affected voice,
things would be very different.

Nelly glanced at Mrs. Lovelace and raised her
brows in a very obvious question. She had spent
many years of her life trying to hide her own little
escapades and flirtations from her mother, and
was not sure whether Linda practised the same
methods.

But it was Mrs. Lovelace herself who interpreted
the look and who replied to it.

“Linda has no secrets from me, Miss Sweet.”

Nelly laughed apologetically.

“Oh, well, then, in that case!” she said; she
turned to Linda. “I want you to come to a dance
on Saturday night. A whole crowd of us from
Lorne’s are going, and it will be great fun. What
do you say?”

Linda’s eyes grew eager, and her cheeks flushed.

“Oh, I should love it—” she began, then stopped.
“I can’t,” she said in sudden change of voice, “I
haven’t got a frock.”

“Oh!” For a moment Nelly Sweet looked
nonplussed, then she broke out again. “Oh we can
soon rig one up for you. I’m quite clever at making
something out of nothing. I’ll show you mine.
It’s all pieces and remnants, but it’s just the sweetest
thing on! and you’ll love it. Do say you’ll come.”

Linda looked at her grandmother.

“Can I?—what do you think? Shall I go?”
she asked dubiously.

Mrs. Lovelace went back to her chair, one slim
hand which rested on its arm was a little unsteady
as she spoke.

“May I ask whose dance this is, and where it
is to be held, Miss Sweet?”

Nelly laughed nervously.

“Well, it’s not anybody’s dance exactly,” she
said with a sort of reluctance. “It’s a subscription
dance. But it’s quite cheap—” she hastened to
add, misreading the shadow which crossed Mrs.
Lovelace’s face. “It’s only four shillings with
refreshments.”

There was a little silence.

“And—where is it to be held?” Mrs. Lovelace
asked faintly.

“In a hall quite close by,” Nelly explained,
eagerly. “It’s ever such a nice dance, and we
have a real jazz band.” She looked at Linda.
“You can dance, of course?”

Mrs. Lovelace interrupted with dignity.

“As a child, my granddaughter attended the
very best dancing classes.”

Nelly looked subdued.

“Oh, of course!” she murmured.

“I can’t do any of these new dances very well,”
Linda admitted. “But I daresay I can soon
learn.”

“Of course you can! I’ll find you some good
partners. Joan’s taking her boy, and I’ve got one
to come along with me.” Again she hesitated,
glancing at Mrs. Lovelace. “You haven’t got a
boy you can bring, I suppose?”

Linda laughed; she was beginning to find the
situation amusing.

Her grandmother’s face was a study, and she
guessed what the old lady must be thinking in her
old-fashioned, most circumspect mind.

“I’ll talk it over with grannie and tell you to-morrow,”
she promised, hurriedly. She was
relieved when Nelly had said her good-byes and
they were downstairs again.

“I think your Grannie’s a darling,” Nelly said,
full of enthusiasm. “She looks as if she’s stepped
right out of a Christmas number! You know
what I mean! One of those coloured plates they
give away.”

Linda was not sure if Mrs. Lovelace would consider
that a compliment or not. “And you will
come to the dance?” Nelly urged as a parting
word. “You’ve no idea how jolly they are! Half-past
eight till one, and we’ll see you home.”

“I’ll let you know to-morrow,” Linda promised,
and went back up the stairs with slow feet.

She found Mrs. Lovelace sitting where they had
left her, something rather piteous in the expression
of her eyes.

“My dear—I have hardly had time to judge.
She has a pretty face, but—oh, Linda, when I was
a girl we never thought of going to subscription
dances. I don’t believe there ever were such
things.”

“I’m sure there were not, dear,” Linda agreed
cheerily. “But it’s considered quite all right
now; but all the same, if you’d rather I didn’t go—of
course, I haven’t a frock.”

Mrs. Lovelace rose from her chair; she had
fought a stern battle with her scruples while Linda
was out of the room.

“If it is the thing to do, and you wish to go,
you shall,” she said firmly. “It is not the form
of enjoyment I should have chosen for you, but
. . .” she stopped, and stifled a sigh; then she
crossed the room. “Linda! do you remember
my old piece-box, the one you used to be so fond
of playing with when you were a little child? Well,
there is a most lovely length of silk in it now—I
bought it somewhere . . . before your mother
. . .” her voice shook, and she did not finish her
sentence.

She went out of the room, and presently came
back with the quaint old tapestry box in which
Linda’s baby fingers had so often rummaged.

She put it down on the table, and lifted the lid.

Linda stood beside her, her face flushed and
eager.

“Ribbons and laces, for sweet pretty faces”—she
sang softly.

“I’m coming to the dance,” she told Nelly Sweet
during lunch the following day. “And I’ve got
some lovely stuff for a frock.”

Nelly nodded; her mouth being occupied with a
piece of very hot potato at the moment, she found
speech impossible.

“A friend of the woman who cleans our house
is making it for me,” Linda went on, “and it’s
amber-coloured——”

“Ripping!” Nelly beamed. “You’ll look
lovely in amber,” she prophesied. “Where shall
we meet? Would you like us to pick you up, or
will you come along to the hall and meet us there?”

“Who else is going?” Linda asked with a shade
of anxiety.

“Me and Joan—the girl who digs with me, you
know—and I’m taking a boy named Bill Sargent.
You’ll like him; he’s in a bank, and he dances well
enough to beat the band. I don’t know who Joan
is bringing, but it’ll be someone posh, you bet!
She knows tons of men.”

“Mr. Lorne!” Nelly’s eyes almost fell out of
their sockets in sheer amazement. “Mr. Lorne!”
she said again blankly. “Good lord, are you
serious? Do you mean Mr. Robert?”

“Yes. I only thought perhaps——” Linda
felt very uncomfortable. She wished she had not
asked such a foolish question.

Nelly went into fits of laughter.

“Heavens, you have got some quaint ideas!
He go to a dance. My dear, he’s the perfect thing in
manhood! Mother’s darling and uncle’s joy, and
all the rest of it. Why I don’t believe he’d dare
go to heaven unless he’d seen a list of those who’d
already gone before him.”

Linda frowned. She resented this downright
criticism of the man who had been so kind to her.

“I’m sure he isn’t a bit like that,” she protested
indignantly.

Nelly made a grimace. “Oh, all right, if you
know him so well,” she said, in an injured voice,
“I don’t want to spoil your sweet illusions.”

“I only asked a question,” Linda protested.
“How do I know what he does or where he goes?”

“What’s it matter? Joan’s wearing bright
green, and she can stand between us and tone us
down if ever we get together.”

Linda did not see her again until just before
closing time, when she caught her arm for a
moment as they passed one another.

“I say, who do you think Joan’s taking to the
dance to-morrow night?” she asked.

Linda shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

“She is the absolute limit,” Nelly said, half
admiringly, half in disgust. “I don’t know how
she does it! I suppose it’s her yellow hair and her
figure, but anyway, she gets hold of the men all
right.”

“Well, who is she taking, then?” Linda asked.
But before Nelly answered some instinct had told
her.

Chapter IV

Linda always looked back upon that dance as a
distinct division between her old, sheltered life,
and the new one upon which she had chosen to
embark.

It was all novelty and excitement from the
moment when Nelly Sweet called at the house for
her, breathless and very smart in her new frock,
and with a too much powdered face, till the moment,
long past midnight, when she was escorted home
again by the Black Prince himself.

“Take care of yourself, promise me you will take
care of yourself,” were Mrs. Lovelace’s last imploring
words, and Linda laughed as she kissed her.
“What do you think is likely to happen to me?”
she asked with affectionate scorn.

She wrapped her cloak warmly around her
and ran downstairs to the open door where Nelly
waited.

There was a taxicab chugging at the kerbstone
outside, and a man standing beside it in evening
dress.

Nelly explained and introduced him rather incoherently.

“This is Bill Sargent!—my friend, Miss Lovelace.
He’s in a bank—oh, I told you—and he
would have a taxi. I was late you see. I generally
am, aren’t I, Bill? So as there wasn’t any time
to lose we had a taxi.” She gave Linda a little
push forward. “Get in!” she ordered; “we
shall be late, and I want to get there before Joan
does.”

Linda obeyed. She felt rather bewildered, but
a moment later they were driving away, with Nelly
chattering all the time, and the big young man on
the opposite seat rather silent.

“Linda hasn’t been to one of these shows before,”
Nelly informed him. “I may call you Linda,
mayn’t I? And you can call me Nelly—it’s more
easy. You’ll like Bill when you know him better,”
she went on, addressing first Linda and then Bill
Sargent with quaint familiarity. “He’s rather
quiet, but he can dance all right—can’t you,
Bill?”

Bill shifted his feet uneasily; he looked a little
cramped on one of the small seats back to the
driver.

“Not so bad,” he said modestly. “Do you go
to many dances, Miss Lovelace?”

“I haven’t been to a grown-up dance at all,”
Linda admitted reluctantly. “I used to go to
parties and things like that when I was small, but
lately—well, things have been different.”

“Her father died, and they lost their money,
you see,” Nelly explained. She was rather proud
of Linda and her grandmother; she wished regretfully
that it was not compulsory for their big house
to be given up; she had been childishly pleased to
introduce Bill to it that evening.

Bill made no comment on this gratuitous piece
of information, and they arrived at the hall almost
at once.

There was a strip of red carpet down, and an
awning overhead.

“It’s not for us, though,” Nelly explained,
modestly. “There was a private dance here last
night, and I suppose they’ve left it up.”

Linda said “Oh!” She could not always follow
Nelly Sweet’s rapid transition of thought; she took
Bill Sargent’s hand when he offered to help her
from the taxi, and followed Nelly through the open
doorway.

In the cloakroom dozens of girls were already
assembled, and the noise of their chatter and
laughter was like the humming in a beehive. Nelly
introduced her to half-a-dozen of her friends in a
single breath.

Linda felt a little uncomfortable, and for a
moment she wished she had not come as she
listened to the light-hearted, irresponsible chatter
around.

“Look at Elsie’s dress! Isn’t it a sight? Dyed,
I’ll bet! It’s the same one she had last year, only
it was blue then! I don’t mind her dyeing it,
only she does swank so! Thinks she’s too good
for anyone else.”

“Who’s she brought with her?—No! has he
really? Well, it serves her right; she always
thought he’d ask her to marry him.”

Linda caught vague snatches of conversation
as she took off her cloak and brushed her hair,
meeting the reflection of her pale face in the mirror
with rather scared eyes.

What sort of an evening was this going to be?
And would she be sorry she had come?

Nelly gripped her arm.

“Come along, the band’s started.”

They went out and upstairs together; to Linda’s
confused eyes the room seemed very much
overcrowded, and everyone seemed to be staring
at her.

Bill Sargent came up to her with a boyish-looking
youth following him.

“May I introduce my friend Archie Lang—Miss
Lovelace.”

Archie Lang bowed, and smiled, showing a
dimple and a faultless set of teeth; his very blue
eyes seemed to take Linda in from head to foot,
with friendly approval before he crooked an arm
towards her.

“Shall we dance?”

Bill Sargent had moved away with Nelly, and
Linda stammered out:

“What sort of a dance is it? I don’t know the
new ones! Oh, I am sorry, but it’s the first dance
like this I’ve ever been to.”

Archie Lang did not look at all perturbed, probably
he had been warned what to expect beforehand.

“I’ll soon show you how,” he promised. “Just
do as I tell you, and don’t be nervous.”

Linda obeyed as best she could.

“Not so difficult—eh?” he asked when they
had gone the round of the room three times.
“You’re picking it up splendidly. Not tired, are
you?”

“No, I like it awfully.”

“Good—we’ll go on then.”

They did not stop till the band stopped, then
Archie mopped his warm face and looked at Linda
smilingly.

“You’re going to make a dancer, I can see that,”
he told her.

“Where shall we sit? It’s warm, isn’t it?”
he broke off, staring across the room with round
eyes. “My hat! look at our one and only
Joan.”

Linda followed the direction of his gaze, and
saw that Joan Astley had just entered the room
with the tall figure of the Black Prince beside
her.

Joan was dressed in a closely-fitting frock made
in a very expensive-looking brocade of brilliant
colouring, and her queer honey-coloured hair was
coiled tightly round her head in a smooth plait.

Archie grinned.

“Looks like an Egyptian,” he said.

“I think she looks lovely; it’s the best frock
in the room,” Linda declared.

She was right; beside the expensive originality
and severity of Joan Astley’s cut, every other frock
seemed to pale into insignificance.

“Well, she’s supposed to know how to dress,”
Archie said reluctantly; he had once had rather a
serious, if callow, affection for Joan himself, and
had not yet quite got over it in spite of the severe
snubbing he had received.

Linda was looking at her interestedly; she
had not liked Joan when she met her at Nelly
Sweet’s rooms, but she honestly admired her
appearance.

“That’s the Black Prince with her,” Archie
volunteered. “I suppose she has hopes! She
always says she’ll marry a title or die an old maid.
Should think she’d die an old maid myself, but
one never knows!” he added in a mincing tone of
mimicry.

Linda looked puzzled.

“But if the Black Prince, as you call him, is
really a titled man, why does he come here?” she
asked. “There must be heaps of far better places
he can go to.”

Archie chuckled.

“These are the sort of places he prefers, I suppose,”
he answered. “He can do more as he
likes. He’s quite a sport, too, in spite of all the
stories people tell about him. I know him well;
he banks at our show—when he’s got anything
to bank,” he added, facetiously. “And there’s
no side about him; he’ll shake hands with any
of us, no matter where we meet him.” He
hesitated, looking down at Linda. “Like to
be introduced?” he asked, with unintentional
patronage.

Linda flushed sensitively; at that moment she
had met the gaze of the Black Prince across the
room, and the same little thrill, half of fear, half of
excitement, which his eyes had given her before,
went through her heart.

She was conscious of a feeling of fatality, almost
of dread.

“If you’d like to know him——” Archie said
again.

Linda shook her head.

“No thank you, I should not like to at all,” she
said decidedly.

Archie Lang looked surprised.

“Most girls go potty over him,” he said blankly.
“You are funny!”

“Am I?” Linda laughed. “Perhaps I like
my friends to myself instead of sharing them with
everyone.”

“You’re like me, then,” he said. He moved his
chair a little closer to hers. “I think we shall get
on well.”

“I think we’d better dance again,” Linda told
him in her most matter-of-fact voice. “Unless
you’re tired of teaching me how not to tread on
your feet.”

He declared that nothing could give him
greater happiness, and the time seemed to fly
until Nelly Sweet came across the room to inform
them that they were going to get something to
eat.

“Bill’s got a table, so you can share it with
us,” she told Linda. “Well, how do you like
Archie?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Isn’t
he a dear?”

“He’s rather nice,” Linda admitted. “But he’s
only a boy.”

Nelly raised her brows.

“Only a boy! My word, he wouldn’t like it if
he heard you say that,” she protested. “He thinks
he’s absolutely it! he’s in the same bank as Bill,
you know.”

“So he told me.”

“They’re great friends, and they dig together,”
Nelly went on. Apparently she had a passion
for explaining everything and everybody. “Bill’s
people live up in the North, and he doesn’t like
them, so he doesn’t often go home, and Archie
hasn’t got anybody except an old aunt, who
he thinks will leave him all her money. He
really comes of well-to-do people,” she added
impressively.

Linda said, “Oh, does he!” She was getting
rather tired of listening to everyone’s family history;
she would much have preferred to find things out
for herself.

They pushed their way down the crowded staircase
to the refreshment room.

Bill Sargent, standing on a chair, waved frantically
to them.

“Here I am! Come along.”

He had tipped up four chairs round a marble-topped
table, and had secured a plate of sandwiches
and some pale-looking claret-cup.

“Bill always manages to get things,” Nelly told
Linda with a touch of pride. “He’s such a man of
the world, you know.”

“Is he?” Linda asked, and looked at the placid
Bill rather sceptically.

But she was hungry and enjoyed the sandwiches,
which were followed by macaroons and an ice-cream
which was beginning to feel the heat.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Nelly asked
Linda.

She had a great air of showing Linda how one
did things in London; presently she produced a
cigarette-case and offered it.

“You don’t smoke!” she ejaculated in horror
when Linda refused. “Goodness, that’s another
thing we must teach her, Archie.”

“I don’t think I should like it,” Linda protested,
flushing.

She did not like to appear different from everyone
else, but she was sure smoking would make her
head-ache; to change the subject she admired
Nelly’s cigarette-case.

“What a very pretty one!”

“Yes,” Nelly smiled. “Bill gave it to me.”
She shot an arch look at Bill, who fidgeted
uncomfortably.

“Are you engaged to Mr. Sargent?” Linda
asked in an undertone when they rose from the
table.

Nelly chuckled.

“Not yet! But . . . well . . . I think he’ll ask
me,” she said in a confident little whisper. “He’s
got quite a good position in the bank—he’s on the
counter.”

Linda was not sure what that meant.

“Is Mr. Lang on the counter, too?” she asked.

Nelly shook her head.

“No, he’s a ledger clerk.” Then she laughed.
“Why don’t you call them by their Christian
names?” she demanded. “We all do; it’s so
much more friendly.”

Linda flushed in embarrassment. “But I never
met them before this evening!” she protested.

Nelly laughed in derision.

“Goodness! One evening is long enough for
some people to get engaged and married in,” she
said. She turned to the two men who were following
them together. “I tell Linda she ought to call you
boys by your Christian names,” she said airily.
“And you call her by her’s.”

Linda interrupted. “Thank you! but I
should not like that. I only allow people I
know very well to use my Christian name.” Then,
conscious of Nelly’s blank stare of amazement,
and the two men’s uncomfortable look, she apologised
quickly.

“I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but . . . I’m
not quite used to the way you all do things.”

Nelly’s pretty face sharpened angrily.

“If you think you’re too good for us——” she
began.

Big Bill Sargent struck in bluntly.

“Don’t be silly, Nelly, Miss Lovelace is quite
right. I should not think of calling her by her
Christian name.”

Nelly made a grimace at him.

“Hoighty-toighty!” she scoffed. “You’re getting
up on a pedestal, too, are you?”

He answered rather sharply that he was not
doing anything of the sort, and if she liked to be
disagreeable she could. And that, anyway, he
was going to have a dance with Miss Lovelace.

The hot blood surged into Nelly’s pale cheeks,
and for an instant her eyes narrowed, until she
looked almost plain, but almost at once she was
laughing again.

“Pooh! Do you think I care!” she scoffed.
“Dance with her and welcome. Archie and I can
easily amuse one another. Come on, Archie.” She
caught his arm, dragging him away, and Linda
looked at Bill with vexation.

“Now she’s angry with us,” she said. “Oh, I
am sorry. I would not hurt her feelings for the
world.”

“You haven’t,” Bill said bluntly. “She’s too
fond of trying to have everything her own way.
Well—may I have this dance?”

She agreed reluctantly.

“I can’t dance at all well,” she told him. “But
if you like to risk it. . . .”

“I shall be delighted,” he answered, and slipped
his arm round her slim waist.

He was a far better dancer than Archie Lang,
and after the first little embarrassment, Linda gave
herself up whole-heartedly to the enjoyment of the
moment.

“That was topping!” Bill said when they
stopped. “You only want a little practise, and
you’ll dance like a fairy.”

Linda smiled, well pleased, though she shook her
head.

“I’m afraid I shan’t have much opportunity
to practise,” she told him regretfully. “You
see——” He interrupted quickly.

“I shall be delighted to bring you here again,
or take you to any other dances, if I may.”

The colour rose in Linda’s face.

“It’s very kind of you, but. . . .”

“It’s not kind at all—except to myself,” he
interrupted coolly. “You have only to let me
know any night you are free, and . . .”

Linda broke in——

“But Nelly! what would Nelly say?”

He looked surprised.

“It’s nothing to do with her,” he answered
blankly.

“Nothing to . . . oh!” Linda realised that
she had said the wrong thing, and tried hurriedly
to cover the mistake.

“Shall we go downstairs again and see what the
others are doing?” she suggested; she led the way
without waiting for him to answer.

The stairs were still fairly crowded, and there
was a little knot of people gathered below in the
doorway of the refreshment room.

Bill tried to shoulder a way for her.

“Thank you . . . please let this lady pass.”

A tall man, who was the centre of the group,
turned hurriedly at the request; he was holding
a jug of claret-cup in his hand, and as Linda passed
him, someone must have jogged his arm, for
without the slightest warning the jug tipped,
spilling its contents down the front of Linda’s
frock.

“Oh, I say, I’m most frightfully sorry! Oh,
by Jove, what can we do!”

Linda, for a moment, hardly realised what had
occurred, raised her eyes at the sound of the distressed
voice, and for the third time met the gaze
of the Black Prince bent upon her.

Then she looked down at her frock, and saw what
had happened.

She gave a little cry of dismay.

“Oh!” She had been so proud of her first
evening frock, and now it was quite spoilt.

The Black Prince produced a soft silk handkerchief
from his pocket and tried clumsily to wipe
out the stains.

“I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world.
I can’t think how I was so clumsy. I say, do
forgive me! Can’t we get some water or
something and wash it out? I say, you fellows,
what’s a good thing to get claret stains out
with?”

Bill had pushed his way forward now; he frowned
as he saw the havoc on Linda’s pretty frock.

“I’m afraid nothing will get them out. You’ll
have to have a fresh width put in, Miss Lovelace.”

She was smoking a cigarette in a wicked-looking
yellow holder, and she puffed a little cloud of smoke
into the air as she spoke.

Linda answered in distress:

“But I shall never be able to match it! It’s a
very old length of brocade my grandmother gave
me——” Tears welled into her eyes, and the
Black Prince broke out energetically.

“It’s only right that I should pay for my clumsiness;
frocks are deuced expensive things, I know,
and so . . .”

Linda froze him with an indignant stare, and he
relapsed into embarrassed silence.

“The woman in the cloak-room might know of
something,” Bill said. “I should run along and
ask her.”

Linda escaped gladly; she was angry with herself
for being so upset, and more angry with the
Black Prince for his carelessness.

And how dared he offer to buy her a new
frock! Her cheeks burned at the thought; and
yet, she was sure he had not meant to insult
her, and his handsome eyes had been genuinely
distressed.

The woman in the cloak-room had small consolation
to offer.

She had known frocks where claret stains had
dried and never shown, but she had known others,
so she declared, where the stain showed so badly
they could never be worn again. She shook
her head over Linda’s beautiful brocade, as she
sponged daintily at the stains. “I’m afraid it’s
done for,” she prophesied dolefully. “However
did you come to do it?”

“I didn’t do it; it was a clumsy man,” Linda
told her angrily.

The woman’s eyes opened wide.

“Make him pay for it!” she advised energetically.
“This frock cost a mint of money, I know,
or else I’m not a judge.”

They dried the frock in front of the fire, and
together anxiously examined the result.

The elder woman shook her head.

“Well, it will always show!” she admitted.

Linda went back to the ballroom with slow steps
and at the door encountered Nelly Sweet, who
pounced upon her sympathetically.

“Oh, you poor thing! What a shame! I’ve
just heard! Here, let me look!” She scrutinised
the stains critically. “Bill’s furious about it,”
she said. Her eyes swept Linda’s flushed face.
“Here, don’t you go taking Bill away from
me,” she threatened, half in fun, half in
earnest. “He’s never danced with anyone else
before when I’ve been around, so you’re mighty
favoured.”

Linda felt angry.

“I didn’t want to dance with him,” she protested
indignantly. “And I certainly don’t want
him!” she added with energy.

“Thank you very much,” said Bill’s voice
drily from behind her, and she turned with a guilty
start.

“I didn’t know you were there,” she admitted.
“But it would not have made any difference if I
had,” she added, angered by the expression of his
eyes.

He smiled good-naturedly.

Nelly broke in rather agitatedly.

“Did you hear what I said about you
Bill?”

He did not reply; he spoke to Linda again.

“Mr. Lincoln wishes to be introduced, Miss
Lovelace——”

“Mr. Lincoln!” Linda echoed.

Nelly grasped her elbow.

“The Black Prince,” she prompted in a whisper.
“Go on and be introduced, dear! You’ll like
him!”

“I’m afraid you have,” Linda admitted with
a sigh. “But, of course, it was an accident, and
accidents will happen.”

Before she could realise it, he had drawn her a
little apart from the others.

“We’ll sit out for this dance, shall we?” he
asked. “The room is rather warm, and I feel
that it will take me some time to apologise for my
sins and receive absolution.”

“I would much rather not say any more about
it,” Linda told him. “It’s done, and that’s all
there is to say. Let’s forget it.”

He turned his handsome eyes upon her.

“And we are friends?” he asked.

“If you wish.”

He held out his hand.

“Then that’s a bargain?”

Linda laid her hand in his.

“I begin to think that my ideas of friendship
are all wrong,” she told him in a puzzled way. “I
thought friendship was a thing that took years to
make, but apparently nowadays it can be done in
a few minutes.”

“It can be done in less time than that,” he
answered promptly. “For instance, the first time
I ever saw you I knew that you and I were going
to be friends.”

She laughed. “Oh, what nonsense!”

“That’s unkind! Besides, it isn’t nonsense. I
saw you yesterday in Lorne and Dodwell’s—do
you remember? Yes, I see you do,” he added,
as she flushed. “I’m a great believer in first
impressions, Miss Lovelace, and my first impression
of you was. . . .” He stopped. “No, on
second considerations, I will keep it to tell to you
another time.”

Linda looked up.

“Oh, tell me now!” she urged.

He shook his head.

“You might not like it.”

“Is it so terrible, then?”

“On the contrary——”

She made a little grimace. “How unkind to
rouse my curiosity and not satisfy it!”

Chapter V

The rest of the evening passed in a dream for
Linda. She had never before met a man of the
world like Andrew Lincoln, and when he calmly
proceeded to monopolise her, with a fine disregard
for either her partners or his own, she gave in
meekly.

He asked innumerable questions about herself;
how long she had been at Lorne and Dodwell’s, who
were her friends there; what plans she had for the
future, and where she lived.

Linda answered them all frankly enough; she
thought he was kindness itself; she thought
he was the handsomest man she had ever seen—she
found him a divine dancer; it was only when
the evening was nearly at an end and Nelly Sweet
caught her for a moment alone, that she realised
she had not perhaps been quite discreet.

“You’ve done it!” was Nelly’s first remark.
“My hat, you’ve done it with Joan. She’ll never
forgive you for this; you’re in her black books for
ever and ever amen. Lord, what on earth made
you do it?”

Linda looked bewildered.

“Do it? Do what?” she asked. “I haven’t
done anything.”

Nelly explained.

“You’ve put Joan’s nose out of joint, that’s
what you’ve done. She brought him here after
all, and she’s fifteen years older than you are, I
should think. How you’ve got the nerve, I don’t
know!”

Linda flushed up to her eyes.

“The nerve!” she faltered. “But . . . but
he asked me to dance with him. He said he
would rather dance with me than with anyone
else.”

Nelly screwed up her nose.

“Pooh! Do you suppose you’re the only one he
says that kind of thing to? Don’t you flatter
yourself, my dear. He’s an old hand at the game,
and you’re a young one. Well, I’ve told you, and
now it’s your look-out.”

She turned away, but Linda caught her arm.

“Oh, don’t go! I’d no idea I was doing anything
wrong; but he is so kind——”

“Kind!” Nelly laughed ironically. “Oh, well,
I’ve heard him called a lot of things, but never
that before,” she said. “Ask Bill, if you want a
true character of the Black Prince. Bill hates him
as the devil hates holy water. Here he comes.”

Bill joined them at that moment; he glanced at
Linda, and quickly away again.

“It’s time we went, isn’t it?” he asked Nelly.
“It’s raining cats and dogs. I’ll see if I can get
a taxi.”

“A taxi! lord, how extravagant we are to-night,”
Nelly mocked him, but her eyes sparkled; she loved
riding in taxi-cabs.

“Bill’s not mean, that’s one thing,” she said
when he had left them.

“Bill would give you the shirt off his back if
you wanted it.”

Linda made no reply, she looked pale and downcast,
and in sudden remorse Nelly demanded:

“Here, what’s the matter now? you look about
as cheerful as a wet week.”

“You’ve spoilt my evening, that’s what’s the
matter,” Linda said energetically. “How did I
know I wasn’t supposed to dance with the Black
Prince? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Lord, am I to look after you all the time for
fear you do the wrong thing?” Nelly demanded
truculently. “There! don’t look so sick about it.”
She lowered her voice, “As a matter of fact I’m
rather glad you’ve knocked some of the stuffing out
of Joan. Though she digs with me, I know she’s
a cat, and it won’t do her any harm. Look out!
here comes Prince Charming.”

Lincoln came swiftly across the room.

“Have you been hiding from me, Miss Lovelace?”
he asked, in mock reproach. “I’ve been
looking for you everywhere. It’s raining like the
dickens, but my car’s here—if you’ll let me give
you a lift, I shall be only too delighted.”

Linda promptly refused.

“I came with Miss Sweet; we shall go back
together.”

“But there’s room for us all,” he answered
quickly. “Room for Sargent, too, if he will come.
You’ll never get a taxi at this time of night, and
raining so hard, too.”

Nelly smiled and dimpled.

“I’m sure it’s very kind of you,” she said, to
Linda’s intense surprise. “But Bill has gone to
find a taxi—oh, here he is.”

Bill returned at that moment; he looked rather
cross.

“Not a cab to be had, and coming down
in sheets,” he grumbled. “You girls had better
wait while I go further down the road and see if I can
pick one up somewhere else.”

“I’ve just offered you all a lift in my car,”
Lincoln struck in, pleasantly. “There’s tons of
room—and I shall be delighted.”

“Oh, it’s awfully good of you!” Nelly gushed.
“I’ve got white shoes on, and they’ll be ruined if
we have to walk. Come on, Linda; we’ll get our
coats.”

She dragged Linda off without waiting for further
protest.

“My dear, he’s got the duck of a Daimler,” she
confided to her when they were out of hearing. “A
grey one, and all upholstered in grey!” She giggled.
“My, won’t Joan be wild! Bet you she thought
she was to be the only honoured one.”

The car proved to be all that Nelly had promised,
and Linda gave a little sigh of content as she sank
back into its luxury.

Bill had obstinately refused to join them.

“I’d rather walk. I like air after the stuffiness
of that room,” he declared, bluntly. “Bye-bye,
Nelly; see you to-morrow.”

Nelly blew him a kiss as she scrambled in beside
Joan Astley.

“Bye-bye, old thing, and thanks ever so much
for coming.”

Linda sat beside Lincoln on the opposite seat;
for the first time since her father’s tragic death
she felt a faint tinge of regret as she remembered
the time when she was driving with her mother
in just such a car as this, instead of having
to work for her living. Then she pulled herself
sharply together; it was wrong to be dissatisfied;
she had much to be thankful for; she
looked shyly at the Black Prince, and found his
eyes upon her.

“Tired?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Oh, no! thank you.”

Joan Astley laughed with a cynical note.

“Tired! Have you been dancing so energetically
then, Miss Lovelace?”

Her eyes beneath their darkened lashes were spiteful,
and a little shiver went through Linda.

Nelly was right, she knew, and she had made
an enemy of Joan.

“I’m not used to it, that’s all,” she answered
gently. “I’ve never been to a dance like that
before.”

“But you’ll go to tons now,” Nelly declared.
She laughed. “Archie was furious with you for
throwing him over,” she broke out impulsively.
“He’s not used to such treatment, you know.”

Linda flushed crimson; she had forgotten all
about Archie. She was annoyed because there
was an amused look in the eves of the man beside
her.

She raised her head a dignified inch.

“Next time I shall take my own partner,” she
said.

They all laughed.

“I suppose he will be a duke at least,” Joan
sneered.

Linda took her literally.

“I’m afraid I don’t know any dukes,” she said.

“Oh, there’s plenty of time,” Joan declared,
and Nelly laughed.

“Well, this is where I get out,” she said in her
cheery way. “Are you getting out with me, Joan,
or are you going on?”

Joan looked quickly at the Black Prince.

“It’s such a wet night,” he said, in his quiet
voice. “Too wet to go on anywhere else, I am
afraid. Some other time we must all foregather
and have a little dinner together.”

The car stopped at the kerbstone, outside the
unpretentious house in the Fulham Road, and the
chauffeur came to the door.

Lincoln got out and stood in the pouring rain,
bareheaded, giving his hand first to Nelly, then to
Joan.

Linda heard their good-nights.

“Nice weather for young ducks,” Nelly said
as she scuttled across the path and out of the
wet.

But what Joan said was inaudible, though she
stood for some seconds talking to the Black Prince
regardless of the rain on her frock and flimsy
evening coat.

Then Linda heard him say, “Well, it’s au revoir
then——”

And the next moment he and she were driving
away alone through the night.

There was a silence which Linda broke.

“It’s been such a lovely evening. I have enjoyed
it. Thank you so much.”

“There is nothing to thank me for, Miss
Lovelace,” Lincoln said. “I am glad you have
had a good time.” He hesitated, and then asked
diffidently: “Perhaps some evening you will be
very kind and do me the honour of having dinner
with me?”

Linda flushed; this was an acquaintance of whom
she was sure her grandmother would approve; she
remembered that Mrs. Lovelace had recalled meeting
the Countess of Star some years ago, and that the
Countess was this man’s aunt.

“I shall be delighted,” she said readily. “At
least, that is if you are sure you wouldn’t rather take
somebody else.”

He laughed.

“Who do you suppose I would rather take?”
he asked amusedly.

Linda hesitated; she thought of Joan, but hardly
liked to mention her name, remembering how
annoyed Bill Sargent had seemed with her earlier
in the evening for alluding to Nelly as if she had a
claim on him. Things must be different to what
she had always supposed, she thought resignedly:
apparently because a man took a girl to a dance and
spent most of the evening in her company, it did
not mean that they were anything more than
ordinary friends.

She answered Lincoln with a little dignified air
that she did not know any of his friends, so could
not possibly answer his question.

“I am quite a free agent, if that is what you
mean,” he told her; “I mean that I am not
married, or engaged to be married, or any of the
hundred and one things I am supposed to be, I
promise you that.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to be inquisitive,” she cried
in distress.

“I am sure you did not.” He took a cigarette-case
from his pocket and offered it to her.

“Will you smoke?”

“Thank you; I never have.”

“Try one now,” he urged softly.

But Linda shook her head.

“Oh, no, thank you; oh, no.”

He put the case away and changed the subject.

“So you are in the ribbons and laces, are you?
How do you like it?”

“Very much indeed, thank you.”

“And you mean to stay?”

“Oh, yes!” Linda answered fervently.

“Until you get married, I suppose?” he asked
lightly.

Linda laughed.

“That won’t be for years and years—if ever,”
she said seriously.

“Why not?”

Linda thought of her own mother and father.

“I don’t think married people are often very
happy,” she said slowly.

He agreed. “I’m afraid they are not; but isn’t
it rather their own faults, don’t you think? They
ought to make sure they are choosing the right
man or woman.”

She puckered her brows.

“I don’t see how anyone can be sure,” she said.
“People change so, don’t they?”

His eyes flashed into sudden amusement.

“How old are you?”

Linda told him without hesitation.

“I shall be seventeen very soon.”

“Only seventeen?”

“Yes.”

“You look much more,” he said.

She was pleased.

“Do I? I’m so glad.”

“In a few years’ time it will make you glad to
be told that you look younger than you really are,”
he prophesied.

“I don’t see why.”

He stifled a sigh.

“It must be nice to be so young and unworldly
as you are,” he said.

His hand touched hers by accident, and Linda
moved uneasily.

“We seem to be a long time getting home,” she
said. She leaned forward and peered through the
rain-smudged window.

Lincoln did not tell her that he had told his
man to drive them the longest way round; he
merely answered that it was a bad night, and one
could not drive too fast.

“It’s a lovely car,” Linda said. Her hand
touched the grey upholstery with soft pleasure,
and then she added, unthinkingly: “We had a
car like this once—very much like it.”

“You did!” He looked surprised, and she
flushed sensitively. “Yes. It’s some time ago,”
she hastened to add. “My father lost all his
money, then he died, and so now we’re quite poor,
Grannie and I.”

“I see, and you live with your grandmother?”

“Yes.”

They were nearing home; Linda recognised
various little landmarks through the wet night,
and she hardly knew if she were glad or sorry.

It had been a wonderful evening, and yet—a
little sigh of relief escaped her as the big car slowed
down and stopped.

But for a moment the Black Prince did not stir.

“When shall I see you again?” he asked
abruptly.

“See me again?” Her voice expressed her
astonishment; that he should want to see her
again was too wonderful.

“That is what I said,” he told her. He thought
her face was the sweetest and most childlike he
had ever seen in the dim light of the car, with wide
eyes and lips parted a little in her amazement.

“Don’t you want to see me again?” he demanded,
a note of impatience in his voice.

Linda suddenly remembered Nelly Sweet’s
friendly warning.

“I’m only in a shop,” she said, “and you——”

He laughed—not a very happy laugh.

“Don’t call me the son of a belted earl, or anything
melodramatic like that,” he said cynically.
“I’m an ordinary man like Bill Sargent and the
other fellows who were there to-night; an ordinary
man with a few more handicaps than they have;
that is the only difference.” His eyes were earnest
as they dwelt upon her face. “I can be just as
good and true a friend all the same, Miss Lovelace.”

He did not wait for her to answer, but he opened
the door of the car and stepped out on to the path.

The rain had almost stopped, but the pavements
and house-tops glistened wetly in the lamplight.

“So this is where you live?” he said musingly,
looking up at the face of the big house, where a
light burnt only in one window, the room where
her grandmother waited, Linda knew.

“Yes”—her eyes followed the direction of
his—“but we are leaving here almost at once,”
she told him. “We can’t afford to stay; we’re
going into rooms.”

She held out her hand.

“Good-night, and thank you for being so kind,
Mr.—Mr.—or do I call you by any title?” she
asked helplessly.

He took her hand in his.

“My name is Andrew Lincoln,” he said.

“Well—good-night, Mr. Lincoln.”

“Good-night, and thank you—very much,” he
said, gravely.

It was a strange thing to have said, she thought,
and she stood on the doorstep in the darkness till
the big car had rolled noiselessly away from the
kerb, then she opened the door with her key and
crept up the stairs.

Mrs. Lovelace’s door was open, and she called
out as she heard the girl’s light step.

“Is that you, Linda?”

“Yes, darling?”

Mrs. Lovelace was sitting up in bed, her white
hair parted neatly beneath an old-fashioned lace
cap, her arms and shoulders wrapped about with a
soft brown Paisley shawl.

“I was so afraid something had happened to
you,” she faltered. “Who brought you home?
I thought I heard a car.”

“It was a car; it was raining so hard we could
not walk.”

For the first time in her life Linda felt it impossible
to tell Mrs. Lovelace exactly what had
happened; she kept her eyelids lowered as she
kissed the old lady’s soft cheek.

Mrs. Lovelace held her at arm’s length.

“Why, how pretty you look!” she said, with
fond pride. “Linda, I have never seen you look
so pretty before.”

Linda flushed with pleasure, and the quick
thought came to her, “Did Mr. Lincoln think I
was pretty? I wonder if he did?”

The day following the dance seemed to Linda
long and dreary.

Miss Gillet had a bad cold, and her temper
suffered in consequence.

“You must really take more interest in your
work if you wish to stay here,” she said once,
sharply, to Linda. “When I was your age I had
longer hours and far less pay. Where are your
thoughts all the time? You are certainly not
thinking of your work. No. That is not the real
Torchon: it is the imitation! How many more
times am I to tell you the difference? Customers
will not tolerate such carelessness.”

Linda said she was very sorry; to tell the truth
she felt tired and her head ached. She was not
used to late hours, but she did not like to make
it an excuse for her inattention.

“You do look washed out,” Nelly Sweet said
at lunch with all the candour of a friend. “Anyone
can see you’re not used to staying out till
morning. What time did the Black Prince go?”

Linda looked up, flushing a little.

“He took me home, that was all.”

“Oh!” Nelly’s voice was dry. “You ought
to have heard Joan go off the deep end when we
went to bed,” she added with a chuckle.

Linda made no answer, but a guilty pang touched
her heart, as she thought of Andrew Lincoln’s
invitation to dine with him.

“I shan’t go, of course I shan’t go!” was the
thought with which she tried to comfort herself.
“And probably he won’t ask me again.”

But unconsciously she found herself looking for
him all day; every time a man came into the store
her heart-beats quickened, thinking perhaps it
might be he, till she grew so preoccupied that Miss
Gillet reprimanded her again.

“Really, Miss Lovelace! I’ve spoken to you
twice and you have not answered me. If this
continues, I shall speak to Mr. Lorne.”

“Oh, no, no!” Linda was panic-stricken;
she could imagine no worse calamity; but the
threat had the desired effect, and she worked well
and carefully for the rest of the day.

“You haven’t told me anything about the
dance, Linda,” Mrs. Lovelace said that evening
at tea. “I thought you would be so full of it.
Did you enjoy yourself?”

“It was lovely, lovely!” Linda said fervently.
“I danced every dance, or tried to!” she added,
laughing. “People were ever so kind, and showed
me the steps.”

“And your frock?” Mrs. Lovelace urged
anxiously.

Linda looked distressed.

“We had an accident! Someone spilt claret-cup
all down it, Grannie.”

“Oh, my dear!”

“Yes, I nearly cried,” Linda admitted. “But,
of course, it was a pure accident: he couldn’t help
it?”

“He? Then it was one of your partners who
did it.”

“Yes.” Linda began to spread some butter
on her bread as if her life depended on it. “Yes—I
wasn’t dancing with him, but someone bumped
into him, and he spilt it. He was awfully sorry.”

“How very distressing. You must show me
the frock presently, and let us see what can be
done.”

Linda did not like to say that she was afraid
nothing could be done. She felt a little nervous
of her grandmother’s searching eyes.

“And who did you dance with?” Mrs. Lovelace
asked after a moment.

Linda told her readily.

“There was a friend of Nelly’s—a Mr. Sargent;
he’s in a bank, and I like him; then there was a
Mr. Lang, but he’s only a boy”—Linda added,
with a fine disregard of the fact that Archie Lang
must have been at least six years her senior.

“And who was kind enough to bring you home?”
Mrs. Lovelace added.

Linda flushed sensitively, though she could not
have told why.

“That was Mr. Lincoln,” she said nervously.
“He had his own car there, and it was raining
hard, and so . . . we all came home together,”
she added.

“Mr. Lincoln!” the name seemed familiar to
the old lady. “Why, surely, that must be some
relation to the Countess of Star?”

“Yes, her nephew,” Linda said.

She rose from the table on the pretext of getting
more hot water for the teapot, but in reality it was
because her grandmother’s eyes were so searching;
and yet, “I’ve nothing to mind! I’ve not done
anything to be ashamed of,” she told herself in
vexation.

But Mrs. Lovelace let the subject drop, to Linda’s
relief, and spoke of other things.

“Mr. Stern has very kindly made all arrangements
for us to leave this house on Saturday,”
she said; her voice was very pathetic. “He
thinks an ordinary cab will take all we shall require.
He has managed to secure the rooms he spoke to
me about at Hammersmith. I have not seen them,
Linda, but he tells me they are quite nice, and it
will not be too far for you. I believe an omnibus
runs right from the corner to Lorne and Dodwell’s.”

“Oh, I shall be all right anywhere,” Linda said
quickly. “It’s only you, darling.”

Mrs. Lovelace passed a handkerchief across her
lips to hide their sudden trembling.

“I try only to remember that we both have
much to be thankful for,” she said. “Saturday
is not a nice day to move anywhere, but I knew it
was the only time you could be with me.”

“Of course! As if you could manage alone!”
Linda teased her.

But to her dismay there was a letter for her the
following morning from Andrew Lincoln:—

Dear Miss Lovelace,—I wonder if you remember
how kind you were to me the other
night, and how you half promised that some
evening you would have a little dinner with me.
I know Saturday is your free day, and so I am
writing to ask if you will let me drive you out
in the country somewhere for the afternoon, and
dine quietly with me afterwards? Please say
yes—and let me have a line to the above address.
I hope you were not too tired after the dance.—Yours
sincerely.

Andrew Lincoln.

A drive into the country, and dinner afterwards!
Linda’s heart leapt at the thought. It would
be wonderful, perfectly wonderful! Then her
enthusiasm faded as she remembered that on Saturday
they were to move to the Hammersmith
rooms.

She would not be able to go! She had never
been so disappointed about anything in her life.

Perhaps he would never ask her again! Perhaps
he would be too offended at her refusal to
give her another thought.

Why could they not postpone the removal another
week, or why could she not ask for the morning
off? But that would never do, she knew, and
with much heartburning she wrote a little note in
reply:—

Dear Mr. Lincoln,—I am so dreadfully sorry—(she
underlined the adjective)—but Grannie
and I are moving from this house on Saturday
as it is my only free time, so I cannot possibly
come. Thank you very much, all the same,
for asking me.

Linda Lovelace.

She said nothing to Mrs. Lovelace about it, but
she gave a deep sigh as she dropped the letter
into the box on her way to business that morning.

“Have you seen anything of the Black Prince?”
Nelly Sweet asked her interestedly when they
met for a few moments.

Linda shook her head.

“No, why do you ask?”

“Because he was going to take Joan out on
Saturday, and he wrote last night putting her off.”

Nelly’s shrewd eyes searched the younger girl’s
face inquisitively. “I wondered if perhaps it was
anything to do with you.”

Linda shook her head.

“With me? Of course not! We’re moving
on Saturday. How could it be anything to do
with me?”

Chapter VI

Mrs. Lovelace and Linda moved from the big
silent house to Hammersmith in a cold wind and
a driving rain.

The last look Linda had of the home where she
had known so much sorrow, was through the rain-spattered
window of a hired cab, as they trundled
slowly away from it through the cheerless afternoon.

There were two big trunks on top of the cab,
and various small parcels inside.

“I wonder if we’ve got everything,” Mrs. Lovelace
said for the twentieth time. Her eyes were
red with weeping: not because she had ever
known any great happiness in her daughter’s house,
but because she was old, and change of any sort
seemed terrible to her gentle soul.

“If we have we can always go back and get it,
dear,” Linda said patiently; she had few regrets
herself: with the eagerness of youth she looked
forward to good things and happiness which were
to come.

Mrs. Lovelace stroked the protesting back of a
small kitten which she was cuddling in her arms.
It was a tiny black thing, with large scared eyes,
and it had appeared on the doorstep of the house
just as she herself was leaving it.

“I shall take it with me,” she told Linda firmly.
“A black kitten is lucky, and we shall need all the
luck we can get.” So she held the kitten in her
arms all the way, in spite of its faint mews of
protest.

“It’s probably got a home and will be missed,
dear,” Linda said; but Mrs. Lovelace would not
listen.

She believed that Fate had sent her this piece
of luck, and she was not going to refuse it.

The house at Hammersmith was a tall, typical
London house that had once seen better days.

A flight of steps led up to its front door and another
flight down to its basement. There were
yellowish lace curtains drawn tightly across all
the windows as if there was something to be concealed,
and small, withered-looking shrubs grew
in boxes on each of the lower sills.

The cabman dragged the two heavy trunks up
the steps, leaving large, muddy footprints behind
him, and an overworked looking maid, in a not
very clean cotton frock and cap, opened the door
to them.

“You can come in,” she said ungraciously, when
she heard who the new arrivals were, and Linda
and Mrs. Lovelace walked into the dark, narrow
hall, which was clean, although it smelt faintly of a
meal but recently cooked.

“Rooms on the first floor, I’ll show you,” the
girl said, and Linda followed, a little depressed in
spite of herself.

“It’s no use, we shall have to get used to it,”
she kept saying over and over in her mind. “If I
let Grannie see I hate it, she’ll break down, and
then what shall I do?”

So she looked round her smilingly and said
cheerfully that it was all very nice, and that she
was sure they would be most comfortable.

“Are we the only . . . people in the house?”
Mrs. Lovelace asked faintly.

She had sunk into the nearest chair, still clasping
the black kitten and was groping for her smelling
salts.

The little maid, whose name Linda had discovered
to be Jenny, shook her head.

“Oh, no, mum! There’s a gentleman got a
bed-sitting-room on the top floor, and a lady
and gentleman downstairs; but they’re all nice
people like yourselves,” she hastened to assure
them.

The cabman dragged the boxes upstairs and
departed, and Jenny reluctantly followed.

“If there’s anything you want——” she said
tentatively.

“We should like some tea,” Linda said. “And—who—can
you tell me who the landlady is?”

Jenny smiled. “She’s a Miss Dallow,” she told
her. “Fancy you not knowing.”

She only meant to be kind, but Linda flushed
with vexation.

“I have to work for my living, and so I had no
time to come here myself,” she said with a touch
of dignity. “We took these rooms through our
solicitor.”

“Oh!” Jenny opened her eyes wide. The
word solicitor conveyed nothing much to her, but
it sounded important, and she closed the door
softly behind her as she went away.

“And now let me take off your bonnet, and
we’ll have tea,” Linda said as cheerfully as she
could; but there was a lump in her throat as she
noticed the shabby furniture of the sitting-room
and the faded walls, which badly needed repapering,
and the tiny grate with its handful of coals
instead of the generous fires to which they had
been accustomed.

Mrs. Lovelace submitted silently; she looked
worn and weary, and her eyes were eloquent as
they wandered round the room.

Linda moved about, putting things straight and
chattering all the time.

“When we make our fortunes we can refurnish
this room,” she said gaily. “We’ll have dark
paint and a light paper, don’t you think, dear,
and two big, comfy chairs?” She opened another
door which led into Mrs. Lovelace’s bedroom.
“Oh, this is nice!” she said, with a pleased note
in her voice. “It’s quite a big room, darling!
Come and look.”

But Mrs. Lovelace had broken down, and was
crying piteously. “It’s not where you ought to
be!” she sobbed. “I don’t mind for myself,
but for you—you’re so young and pretty! You
ought to be going about now, and having a good
time. It’s not fair, it’s not fair!”

Linda’s face quivered, and she bit her lip to
steady it, then she said brightly:

“But it’s much more fun like this; can’t
you see that it is? It’s far better to get on
through our own efforts than to have everything
just left to us by someone else who has done
the hard work. Oh, Grannie, don’t cry, or I
shall start, too, and then what will you do?
You just wait till I’ve unpacked our things
and bought a few flowers! You won’t know
the place, I promise you!”

Jenny arrived at that moment with tea to Linda’s
intense relief, and Mrs. Lovelace went hurriedly
into the next room to hide her tears.

The tea was not exactly appetising; the bread
was thick, and there was not much butter; the
tea was weak and rather dusty, and the cups were
thick and the little plate of home-made cakes were
burnt.

“I’ll get tea myself another time,” Linda thought
as she hurriedly rearranged the table to make it
look better.

But, try as she would to look on the bright side
of things, her spirits seemed to be sinking with each
passing moment, and the tears were not very far
away.

She wondered what her father would think if he
could see them now! Poor man, he had worked
so hard to ensure their comfort, and after all he
had failed.

“But he succeeded first, and so will I,” Linda
told herself, determinedly. “What’s the good
of giving in and admitting that you’re beaten?”

She did her best the whole evening, but it was
hard work, and she was glad when at last Mrs.
Lovelace took her tears to bed, and even then
she found fresh cause for distress.

Linda fetched all the shawls and pillows she
could find to improve matters, and at last the old
lady fell asleep, while the little black kitten curled
up on the quilt beside her.

Linda stood looking down at them both, with
tears in her eyes, then she put out a finger and
touched the kitten’s soft fur.

“Bring us luck! We want it,” she said with a
sigh, as she went back into the sitting-room and
poked the dying fire into a little flame.

She dreaded Monday, when she would have to
go to work and leave Mrs. Lovelace alone. Jenny
seemed a kind enough girl, but Linda knew how
sensitive her grandmother was, and wondered
how she would get through the long days with
nobody else for company.

It was nearly ten o’clock then and she was thinking
of going to her own room which was just across
the landing, when someone tapped softly at the
door.

“Please come in.” She expected Jenny to
enter, but to her astonishment, when the handle
was reluctantly turned, it was Nelly’s friend,
Bill Sargent, who stood there, his big person
filling up the doorway, his face a little red and
embarrassed.

“You!” Linda was too amazed to give him
any other greeting.

“Yes.” He came a step into the room. “I
knew you were moving in to-day,” he explained.
“And I wondered if there was anything—if I could
do anything for you——” He smiled suddenly.

“I live in the bed-sitting-room upstairs,” he added.

Linda was too astonished to speak; she just
stared at Bill Sargent with blank eyes; then,
realising that he looked decidedly embarrassed,
she laughed and held out a hand.

“Well, how surprising! who ever expected to
see you here? How did you know we had taken
these rooms?”

He took her hand in a bearlike grasp.

“Everyone talks in a place like this,” he said
in his cheery way. “And Jenny—the maid, you
know—she’s a great friend of mine, and she told
me. Of course, I was awfully surprised.”

“Of course! I hope we shall be comfortable.
Grannie doesn’t like it a bit, poor darling—the
rooms are small, and . . . well, it’s not what
she’s been used to, of course, but I do hope she
will settle down.”

“Changes are never very pleasant,” Bill said.
He fidgeted on one foot rather nervously. “Sure
there’s nothing I can do for you? I’d have come
down before, only I thought perhaps you wouldn’t
thank me for interfering.”

Linda glanced behind her into the littered sitting-room.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I should be very glad
if you would move some of our boxes for me,” she
said reluctantly. “I don’t like to make use of
you like this, but they’re heavy—the man brought
them into the wrong room when we came, and in
the excitement of it all I forgot to ask him to move
them.”

“I’m a great hand at being a porter,” Bill
said. He was so friendly and cheery that Linda
felt her heart warm towards him. After all, it
would be rather nice to have somebody she
knew, even slightly, in the house; she looked
on with amusement while he shouldered the
heavy trunks and stowed them way in corners
under her direction.

“And that one goes across the passage into my
bedroom,” she told him. “Oh, thank you so
much.”

“Not at all.” He deposited the last box carefully,
then squared his shoulders, brushing a hand
boyishly over his hair, which had got rather ruffled
in the removal.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes; thank you, ever so much.”

“Not at all,” Bill said again. He looked like
a big schoolboy, she thought, and suddenly
she realised why Nelly Sweet thought so much of
him.

He was such a breezy, unaffected personality,
with such disarming frankness.

“How is Nelly?” she asked impulsively.

“Nelly,” he frowned a little at the question.
“Well, you should have later news of her than
I have,” he said bluntly. “You see her every
day, don’t you? I haven’t seen her since the
dance.”

“Not since the dance?” Linda looked the
astonishment she felt; she was under the impression
that Nelly saw him very often. “Oh—well,”
she added rather helplessly.

There was a little silence, and to break it she
asked how long he had lived in the house.

“About two years. I have a home, but I don’t
hit it with my people very well, so I prefer to be
on my own.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I’ve only got a bed-sitting-room,” he explained,
casually, “but it suits me. I’m in so little.”

“Yes. And—Miss Dallow—she—is she nice?”

He laughed boyishly. “Oh, she’s all right;
she looks rather like a bad copy of the women Du
Maurier used to draw,” he said. “You’ll have a
fit when you see her for the first time, but she’s not
so bad. I get on with her all right.”

“Well—I won’t keep you any longer,” Linda
said; she held out her hand. “Good-night, and
thank you so much.”

“You’ve nothing to thank me for; only too
delighted.”

He disappeared up the stairs, and Linda heard
his footsteps overhead and the opening and shutting
of a door.

She went back to Mrs. Lovelace, and found
the old lady nodding drowsily in spite of her declaration
that she would never sleep. She bent
over her and kissed her wrinkled cheek softly, then
she turned out the light and went into the sitting-room.
She tidied it up to the best of her ability,
but it still looked hopelessly overcrowded and
uncomfortable, but she was too tired to sit up any
longer, so she decided to leave the rest until to-morrow,
and went off to bed. She slept soundly
in spite of the strangeness of the room, and only
woke to find the maid Jenny standing beside her
bed, and the room full of daylight.

Jenny carried a cup of tea on a painted tray.

“For you, Miss,” she said in a theatrical whisper;
“it’s against the rules for me to bring tea to our
lodgers as a rule, but I made myself a cup and I
thought you’d like one too.”

“Oh, Jenny, how kind of you.”

Linda was touched and delighted; she drank
the tea thirstily, then put on her dressing-gown
and ran across to Mrs. Lovelace.

The old lady said that her head ached, and she
was inclined to be tearful; she declared that she
had not slept a wink; she said that the noise of the
omnibuses had kept her awake all night.

“But, darling, they don’t pass the house!”
Linda protested.

“But I can hear them in the distance, I know I
can,” Mrs. Lovelace persisted.

Linda laughed, and told her it was imagination.

“I must get dressed and then you shall have
breakfast,” she said, and hurried away.

To her unaccustomed hands there seemed a
tremendous amount to do before one got a kettle
and eggs to boil, and bread to turn into nice crisp
toast.

“I shall do it better when I’m more used to
it,” was the thought with which she comforted
herself.

The time seemed to fly, and the work did not
seem half completed when the clock showed her
that she ought to be leaving the house.

She made up the fire and kissed Mrs. Lovelace.

“I must go, but I’ll be home as soon as I
can, and promise me not to fret, and try to be
cheerful.”

“I’ll try,” Mrs. Lovelace promised with an April
smile, but Linda’s heart ached as she descended
the stairs. She could not bear to think of the long
day Mrs. Lovelace must spend alone; she wondered
if what Bill Sargent had said would ever come true,
and that they would get used to their new
surroundings.

She met Nelly Sweet as she left the omnibus;
Nelly, very smart in a new hat of almond green,
with a primrose wing at one side.

“Like it?” she demanded, turning and twisting
her head like a canary bird. “I bought it off
Joan.”

“It’s very smart,” Linda said wistfully, and
wondered how long it would be before she could
afford a new hat for herself.

“Well, have you moved in all right?” Nelly
inquired as they hurried along together.

“Yes. We’re not straight, of course, but—oh,
by the way, who do you think lives upstairs over
our heads?”

“Couldn’t say! Anybody exciting?”

“Mr. Sargent!”

“What! My Bill?” Nelly’s eyes were round
with amazement. After a moment she demanded:
“Here, did you know that before you moved?”

“Of course not; what a silly question.”

Nelly looked ruffled.

“Well, I never knew where he lived,” she said
offendedly. “I always have to write to him at
the bank if I want anything.”

“Well, you know now,” Linda said; she felt
rather annoyed at Nelly’s manner.

Miss Gillet had a cold in the head that morning,
and her temper was a little more uncertain than
usual.

“Only just in time, Miss Lovelace,” she said
icily, as Linda hurried in. “When I was your age
I was expected to be at least ten minutes earlier
than scheduled time.”

Linda began to explain that she had had a lot
to do, but Miss Gillet cut her short.

“That will do; excuses are not necessary.”
She did not speak to her again till much later in the
morning, when she called to her from the far end
of the counter.

“Miss Lovelace, will you kindly attend to this
lady for me?”

Linda turned hurriedly; it was not often that
Miss Gillet permitted her such an honour. She
looked at the lady standing by the counter. She
was tall and rather overdressed, and she was impatiently
tapping her fingers on the glass lid of a
showcase.

“What can I do for you, madam?” Linda asked
timidly. Then she gave a stifled cry of amazement
as she looked into her mother’s face.

“Mother!” Linda spoke the word in a breathless
whisper, the hot colour surging into her face.

She had hardly thought of her mother since the
tragic moment of her flight; she had shut her out
of her memory with great bitterness, and now here
they were face to face again when she had hoped
that they might never meet any more.

Mrs. Dawson had altered considerably, and not
for the better; she had grown stout, and the natural
beauty of her hair had been artificially touched;
although Linda hated herself for the thought, it
flashed into her mind that her mother had grown
common.

“Mother!” she said again.

Mrs. Dawson laughed.

“So this is what they’ve done with you,” she
said. “I’ve often wondered. This is your grandmother’s
doing, of course! A nice occupation for
a lady!”

Linda drew herself up proudly.

“It was my own wish. I had to do something
for a living, and this seemed the best thing.”

Mrs. Dawson’s lips curled in a sneer.

“I always said you were like your father. This
is the sort of life he would have chosen for you if
he had been asked.”

Linda cast an agonised glance in the direction
of Miss Gillet; there was very little that escaped
her, she knew, and she was not anxious for her to
realise the situation.

“I’m not supposed to speak to customers except
about their purchases,” she said breathlessly.
“Please——”

“A fine way to speak to your own mother,”
Mrs. Dawson said, indignantly. “I suppose you’re
the typical modern girl now; all independence and
impudence——”

“Mother!”

“And where are you living, may I ask? Where
is your grandmother?”

Linda bit her lip to hide its trembling.

“I can’t tell you—she—we, oh, we’re not in at
all a nice place; you would hate it.”

“You have not yet told me where it is.”

Linda flushed and the tears rose in her eyes;
she knew that Mrs. Lovelace would not wish to see
her daughter; but it was going to be difficult to
keep them apart, she could see.

“We thought you had gone abroad,” she faltered
desperately.

Mrs. Dawson laughed.

“I went abroad certainly, and now I am married
again. You may be interested to hear that I
married Goring-Wells, the financier, and we have
a house in Cavendish Square.”

Linda was not interested; she had never heard
of Goring-Wells.

“It will be to your advantage to be friends with
me,” her mother went on. “My husband is a
wealthy man, and I have often spoken to him
about you. You must leave this business at once,
of course——”

Linda broke in agitatedly.

“It’s not possible! I can’t! I don’t want to.”

Mrs. Goring-Wells went on:

“You must take your proper place in society
now. I shall be delighted to take you about with
me.” She realised how much Linda had changed
for the better, and a faint pride rose in her selfish
heart. In her ambitious way she looked ahead,
and saw a great future for her daughter, and perhaps
a great marriage. She imagined what a
pleasure it would be to chaperone a beautiful
daughter, to choose her clothes; she knew that
Goring-Wells would not object. He was a mild
little man, with no opinion of his own except where
business matters were concerned. He would not
dare to thwart her wishes she knew.

Linda interrupted determinedly.

“I shall not leave here, and I shall always live
with Grannie.”

“Nonsense! Your grandmother cannot live
for ever, and then what will become of you? Don’t
be ridiculous. Now give me your address.”

“I can’t! I—oh, please!—I shall get into
such trouble if you talk to me much longer without
buying anything!”

“Very well; then I will meet you later on.
What time do you leave here?”

“Six o’clock, but——”

“I will be outside at six, then.”

“But mother——” Mrs. Goring-Wells turned
away without answering, and Miss Gillet came at
once to Linda.

“You allowed that lady to go without making
a purchase; what is the reason?” Then she saw
the tears in Linda’s eyes, and softened a little.
“Pooh, don’t be so soft-hearted!” she chided her.
“We all have to put up with rebuffs; the sooner
you cultivate stoicism in business the better.”

Linda did not like Miss Gillet well enough to
explain matters, but she was thoroughly upset
and distressed by the meeting.

What would Mrs. Lovelace say? Should she
tell her?

“A penny for your thoughts,” Nelly Sweet said
at lunch. “I’ve been watching you for the last
ten minutes, and you haven’t eaten a thing; you’ve
just been staring before you. What’s up? In
love?”

Linda roused herself with an effort.

“Of course not! I was only thinking.”

“Well, I should try and think about something
more pleasant then,” Nelly advised, adding another
lump of sugar to her tea. “Take my advice, and
never worry about anything. What’s the
good? Nobody cares, and it makes you old and
ugly.”

But Linda could not help worrying, and her
heart was beating fast with nervous apprehension
when, at six o’clock, she waited up and down outside
Lorne and Dodwell’s. She had had to make
an excuse to Nelly that she had someone to meet,
and had met with the usual question.

“A boy?”

“No, of course not.”

“I wouldn’t like to bet on it,” had been Nelly’s
laconic answer as she put on her hat and hurried
off home.

Linda hoped with all her heart that her mother
would not come, but before long she saw her.

“Punctual, you see,” Mrs. Goring-Wells said
lightly; she carried a large bunch of lilies in her
hand. “For your grandmother,” she said. “We
will take them to her.”

Linda stood still. “Mother, I’m sorry, awfully
sorry—but I couldn’t take you home without
telling Grannie first. It might make her
ill. Oh, please, don’t be angry, but I know I am
right.”

“I know you are very impertinent,” was the
angry reply. “It is coming to something if I am
to be defied by my own daughter. Does all my
love and care for you count for nothing?”

Linda’s eyes filled with tears.

“You left us—you left me and father when we
most wanted you.”

Mrs. Goring-Wells opened her lips to retort, then
closed them again with a sort of snap; after a
moment she said darkly:

“I say nothing! Thank heaven I can control
myself; but some day you will be sorry for behaving
in such a manner. Now, no more nonsense, if you
please. Call a taxi and take me to your grandmother.”

“I can’t—I’m sorry—but I can’t——” Linda
hardly knew what she was saying, but she spoke
determinedly enough, and then, as her mother
began a fresh torrent of anger, she turned precipitately
and ran from her across the road.

She climbed on to the first omnibus she could
find, and took a seat on top at the very back.

The tears were wet on her cheeks now, and she
had to bite her lip hard to keep herself from bursting
out crying.

She was overwrought by the responsibility and
excitement of the past months, and was very near
breaking point.

A man sitting beside her moved up a little to
give her more room, then suddenly he spoke:

“I thought I was not mistaken. It is Miss
Lovelace, isn’t it?”

And, turning, she found herself looking into the
face of Robert Lorne.

“Oh, Mr. Lorne!” She hardly knew whether
to laugh or cry. She wiped her tears away with a
shaking hand, but more came.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked kindly.
“Aren’t you well—or—I hope nothing has gone
wrong in business? If it has, tell me. I like
everyone to be happy. Come, can’t you tell
me?”

She broke into trembling, embarrassed denials.

“It’s nothing—at least, nothing to do with you
or the business. It’s only something—something
of my own that’s gone wrong.”

He smiled at the rather childish explanation.

“Well, two heads are better than one in any
trouble,” he said. “Why not tell me what it is,
and see if I can help you?”

Linda hesitated, then she looked at him with
misty eyes, and saw the kindly sympathy beneath
his beetling brows.

This was a man to trust, she knew. After a
moment she told him what had occurred.

Robert Lorne listened kindly to the story of
Linda’s meeting with her mother while the omnibus
jolted them on its way down the street.

“It would kill Grannie if I took her home,”
Linda added with a little excited note in her
voice. “She has never spoken of mother since
the day she went away. I just couldn’t do it,
could I?”

Robert Lorne hesitated; he felt rather surprised
at himself because of the interest he was taking in
this girl. His was such a busy and rather self-centred
life that he had very little time for concerns
outside his own, but Linda seemed so genuine in
her concern, and looked so young and confiding
with the tears still wet on her lashes, that she invested
her story with more romance than it really
deserved.

“I think I should tell Mrs. Lovelace that you
met your mother,” he said after a moment, “and
leave her to decide for herself what is to be done,
but I don’t think there is any real need for you to
be quite so upset about it,” he added, smiling
whimsically. “It’s not your fault in any way, is
it?”

Robert Lorne made no comment; he felt vaguely
sorry for this girl; he had taken the trouble to find
out something of her history, and agreed with his
uncle that her father had been the victim of a
rascally partner. After a moment he asked:

“And where are you living now did you
say?”

Linda told him apologetically. “They’re not
very nice rooms, but I daresay we shall get used to
them.”

“It’s surprising how quickly one can get used
to anything with a little determination,” he
answered kindly. He rose. “This is where I get
down, so I will say good-bye for the present.”

He held out his hand and pressed hers kindly.

“Cheer up,” he said, and, with a smile, was gone.

Linda looked after him as he walked away down
the street. It was all very well for him, she
thought in vague resentment; no doubt he was
a very rich man, and lived in a beautiful house.
She could not understand why he was riding on
an omnibus; she thought that she would condescend
to nothing less than her own car if she were in his
position.

But she felt more cheerful for having confided
her troubles to somebody, and there was no
sign of distress in her face when she reached Miss
Dallow’s.

Mrs. Lovelace was sitting by the window, a shawl
round her shoulders, and a book lying disregarded
in her lap; she turned her head when Linda entered
and a little glad smile crossed her face.

“At last! I thought you were never coming.”

“I came as soon as I could, dear, but I was
detained”—Linda avoided her grandmother’s
eyes. “I’ll make the tea in a moment; what have
you been doing all day—oh, how lovely!” she
broke off with a little cry of delight as her eyes fell
upon a large bunch of roses lying on the table.
“Oh, Grannie, where did they come from?”

Mrs. Lovelace shook her head.

“I don’t know, they were just left at the door.
I daresay you know more about it than I do,” she
added, with faint jealousy, as Linda bent her face
to the scented blossoms.

“I don’t! I don’t know anyone who would be
likely to spend so much money on me,” Linda
declared, but in her heart she thought she knew.
It was Andrew Lincoln, and her pulses tingled with
excitement as she laid the flowers regretfully down
again.

He had not forgotten her then; he had found
out where she lived. She sang as she laid the cloth
and made the tea, rattling away now and then
of the events of the day.

“I came home on an omnibus, with—whom do
you think?” she demanded gaily.

“My darling child, how should I know?”

“Well, it was Mr. Lorne, Mr. Robert Lorne, the
man who got me into the firm, you know. He
was so nice—he——” she broke off, remembering
her confidence to him. Well, she would wait a
little while before she spoke of her mother; it would
do later on in the evening.

She untied the roses and arranged them in a blue
glass vase.

“They scent the whole room, don’t they?” she
said, holding them at arm’s length. She set them
down on a corner of the small sideboard where they
showed to best advantage, and dragged a stool
over to Mrs. Lovelace, sitting down upon it, and
leaning her arms on the old lady’s lap.

“Well, and what have you been doing all day?”
she asked.

Mrs. Lovelace sighed.

“I haven’t done anything,” she admitted. “I
looked out of the window, and then I tried to read—and
then Jenny came in and talked to me for a
little while, and then Miss Dallow came. Linda,
you haven’t seen Miss Dallow yet?”

“No.”

Mrs. Lovelace lowered her voice.

“She’s a most strange person,” she said
mysteriously. “I don’t think I have ever met
anyone quite like her before.”

Linda laughed; she had begun to discover that
the world was full of strange people, but instead of
feeling shocked about it, as she could see Mrs. Lovelace
did, she thought how wonderfully interesting
it made life appear.

“I’ll go down and see her presently,” she
promised. “Mr. Sargent says that she’s really
not at all bad.”

“And who is Mr. Sargent, Linda?”

Linda flushed a little.

“Well, dear, it’s very strange,” she said, rather
reluctantly. “I met him at the dance the other
night; he’s a friend of Nelly Sweet’s—and it appears
that he lives upstairs.”

“Upstairs! In this house?”

“Yes. After you had gone to bed last night
he came down to see if there was anything he could
do to help us.”

Mrs. Lovelace looked disturbed.

“Linda, did you know before we came that
this young man was in this house?” she asked
severely.

Linda laughed. “Grannie! Of course not!
I’ve only seen him once.”

“You seem to have made friends with a great
many young men since you went into business,”
Mrs. Lovelace complained.

“Not friends,” Linda protested. “I only just
know them. Why, they all belong to someone
else,” she added with a half sigh as she thought of
Andrew Lincoln. What would Joan say if she
knew he had sent her those flowers? She stole a
shy little glance at them across the room.

“Things were very different when I was a girl,”
Mrs. Lovelace said uneasily. “Why, I remember
when I was engaged to your grandfather, I was
never allowed to speak to him alone until we were
married. My mother or father was always in the
room.”

“Grannie! Why, however could you be expected
to know one another?”

Mrs. Lovelace smiled reminiscently.

“Well, I’m afraid we never did,” she admitted.

Linda rose to her feet.

“I’ll just clear the tea things away, and then
I’ll go and see Miss Dallow. If she’s so queer, I’d
like to get it over.”

She was half-way down the stairs when she
encountered Bill Sargent coming up.

“Hullo!” said Linda, breezily; she looked upon
Bill very much as she would have done upon an
overgrown schoolboy.

“Have you only just come from business?”

“No.” He leaned against the banisters, squeezing
his big figure into as small a compass as possible
to allow her to pass, for the stairs were not very
wide.

“Did you get the roses?” he asked, abruptly.

“Roses!” Linda repeated the word vaguely,
then the warm colour rushed to her face with a
sense of acute disappointment.

“Oh, were they from you?” she asked, blankly.

“Yes.” He hesitated, looking rather puzzled.
“I thought you would like them,” he added, lamely.

Linda recovered herself with an effort when she
saw his disappointment.

“Oh, it was kind of you, ever so kind,” she said
quickly. “But you shouldn’t have sent them!
I never dreamed it was you.”

He answered bluntly: “No, I don’t suppose
you did.” Then he gave a rough little laugh.
“I’m sorry. I won’t offend again,” he said almost
rudely, and, turning, brushed past her and went on
up the stairs to his own room far above.

Linda went on her way feeling rather puzzled.
It was strange of him to have sent her flowers
which must have been so expensive, she thought,
especially as she had understood that he was
Nelly’s friend.

Of course, he had meant it kindly, but all the
same there seemed no reason for the attention;
her face was rather grave as she descended the
stairs which led down to the basement, and tapped
on a closed door.

It was opened almost immediately by a tall,
spare woman, with the blackest hair and the
highest forehead Linda had ever seen. She looked
more like a caricature than a real woman, and she
wore the strangest, stiffest, most old-fashioned
frock it was possible to imagine. It was high at
the neck, and buttoned in a row of at least twelve
buttons down to the waist, and a heavy silver
chatelaine hung with keys and scissors and all sorts
of other useless looking articles dangled by her
side.

Linda looked at her with unaccountable nervousness.

“I am Miss Lovelace,” she stammered out at
last.

“Yes, I have seen you before—in the distance,”
was the uncompromising reply, and the door was
opened a shade wider. “Perhaps you will come
in if you wish to speak to me. I object to the
entire household knowing my business.”

Linda wished she had not come, but she followed
Miss Dallow into the room, and the door was
shut.

It was a warm, cosy little room, with a big fire,
and large easy-chair drawn up before it, in which
sat a big cat with round yellow eyes like an owl’s,
which stared at Linda all the time with a most
disconcerting steadiness.

“I don’t want to speak about anything particular,”
Linda said, feeling very young and foolish.
“But I thought you would like to see me, that’s
all.”

“I have already interviewed Mrs. Lovelace,”
Miss Dallow went on in a deep voice that seemed
to come from a great distance away. “So I think
it is hardly necessary for us to waste one another’s
time. I think you will be comfortable in my house.
I have never had complaints from any of my
lodgers—yet!”

There was a little pause, then she opened the
door, and Linda found herself outside again, too
dazed to speak.

“What a horrible woman!” she thought resentfully
as she climbed the stairs. “If I had known
she was like that, I wouldn’t have come here,
not for Mr. Stern or anyone else.”

“I am sure she means to be kind, dear,” Mrs.
Lovelace said, when Linda burst in upon her,
flushed and angry. “Perhaps you should not
have gone down to see her. But, really, I know
nothing about the etiquette of such things, and I
thought it would be only polite.”

“She’s an old cat!” Linda said vigorously.

Mrs. Lovelace drew her delicate brows together
in protest.

“Linda, that is not a very ladylike thing to
say! It sounds more like Nelly Sweet than my
granddaughter.”

Chapter VII

There followed rather a dull fortnight for Linda.
Nothing particular happened to break the monotony
of her business life. She neither saw nor
heard anything of Andrew Lincoln, and she felt a
little sore about it.

Nelly Sweet was unsympathetic.

“I told you what he was!” she said triumphantly.
“Just a flirt, that’s all. You won’t see
him again, mark my words. I daresay Joan gave
him such a dressing-down that he won’t dare to
look at you any more.”

“I never wanted him to look at me,” Linda
protested with dignity.

But it was not quite the truth, and a dozen times
a day she found herself thinking of him, and wondering,
wondering. . . .

Were all men like that? Just paying attention
to a girl for their own amusement? She was sure
there was a look of triumph in Joan Astley’s queer
eyes whenever they met hers.

As a matter of fact, Linda was finding life a
little disappointing in more ways than one; the
ribbons and laces which she had so adored as a
child began to pall a little when one lived amongst
them every day, and Miss Gillet reduced everything
to such a commonplace business atmosphere that
there seemed very little romance about earning
one’s own living at all.

Linda had imagined that she would never wish
to leave the shop and go home, but now she found
herself looking forward to six o’clock just as eagerly
as the other girls did, and as the days grew longer
and brighter she thought of the country and the
green fields with longing.

Nelly Sweet was voluble one Monday morning
of the Sunday she had spent down at Chorley
Wood.

“Bluebells, my dear, till you couldn’t
think,” so she told Linda. “And grass, and
the darlingest little lark in the sky; oh, it was
heaven!”

“Did you go alone?” Linda asked enviously;
she had spent her Sunday trying to amuse Mrs.
Lovelace, who had got a bad chill, and had been
forced to stay in bed.

“Did I go alone!” Nelly echoed with scorn.
“Not much! Bill took me.”

“Oh!” Linda had hardly seen Bill since that
day on the stairs when he had asked her about the
roses. Once he had passed her at the gate with a
hurried good evening; once he had taken a letter
to the post for her when it was raining; but his
first attempts at friendliness had vanished; he
treated Linda now as he would have done the most
casual acquaintance.

She was vexed, without knowing why.

“It doesn’t really matter, of course!” she told
herself. “And yet, it would have been nice to
have him for a friend.”

“Are you engaged to Bill?” she asked Nelly,
as she had asked her once before on the night of
the dance.

Nelly shook her bobbed head so vigorously that
for a moment she really looked like a yellow
mop.

“No! no luck!” she said sententiously. “But
I don’t mind admitting that I’d have him if he
asked me.”

“Why don’t you make him ask you then?”
Linda inquired, with the ignorance of a girl who
has never cared for anyone seriously.

“Make him!” Nelly opened her eyes wide.
“Goodness, I can’t see anyone making Bill do anything
he didn’t choose to do,” she said in amazement.

Linda looked scornful.

“Pooh! He’s only a big boy,” she said, with a
little spiteful feeling in her heart as she thought
of Bill’s casual good-day to her on the stairs that
morning.

Nelly looked amused.

“Is he? That’s all you know,” she said calmly.
“Why, if he chose, Bill could make me, or you,
or any other girl knuckle under to him in a brace
of shakes.”

“I should like to see him try with me,” Linda
said loftily.

Nelly Sweet laughed.

“I’ll tell him,” she promised calmly.

The chill which Mrs. Lovelace had managed to
contract did not yield to treatment as easily as
Linda had hoped, and one night, going into her
grandmother’s room to see how she was, she found
the old lady fighting for breath and obviously very
ill.

Linda was terrified; she rushed out on to the
landing, calling loudly for Jenny, but the house
seemed unusually quiet and deserted, and she was
running wildly downstairs for help when a door
opened overhead and Bill Sargent appeared on
the staircase.

“Miss Lovelace, is anything wrong?”

Linda turned a white, scared face up to him.

“It’s Grannie—she’s ill, she’s dreadfully ill;
she cannot breathe; oh, where can I get a
doctor?”

“I’ll get one.” Bill was down the stairs in a
twinkling and out in the street: he called back
over his shoulder to Linda: “Get some water
boiling. I daresay it’s only bronchitis. I’ll be
back in a minute.”

But it seemed a lifetime till he returned, breathless
with the speed at which he had run.

Jenny was awake then, and had tumbled out of
bed, sleepy-eyed but sympathetic, willing to do
anything, though she rather spoilt her kindliness
by narrating how she had seen her own sister die
of bronchitis, “fighting something awful for breath
till the end!”

She was in the middle of a second hair-raising
story when Bill Sargent came in, and promptly
silenced her.

“Now then, Job’s comforter,” he said, “you be
quiet, and go and let the doctor in. That’s
him ringing now—hurry up, there’s a good
soul.”

He took her by her shoulders and turned her
forcibly out of the room, and Linda looked at him
with terrified eyes.

“Oh, do you think she will die? Do you think
she will die?”

“I’m sure she won’t”—his calm, matter-of-fact
voice restored her confidence. “People don’t die
of a mild attack of bronchitis. Here is the doctor,
so I’ll go, but if there’s anything you want, just
sing out to me, and I’ll come.”

But in spite of his assurance, Mrs. Lovelace was
very ill for several days. Linda spent agonised
hours at Lorne and Dodwell’s, not liking to ask for
leave, and dreading what she would find when she
got home in the evening.

Nelly was sympathetic, but inclined to be jealous
of Bill’s kindness, for in the gratitude of her
heart Linda told her what a good friend he had
proved.

“I don’t know what we should have done without
him,” she said over and over again. “He’s
been like a brother.”

Nelly sniffed inelegantly.

“Well, as long as he’s only like a brother——”
she said darkly.

The subtlety of her words passed Linda by; she
was too racked with her own fears to heed anything
outside them.

At six o’clock she raced home, trembling with
dread, to find the doctor’s car outside the house,
and to meet Miss Dallow on the stairs.

“Grannie!” She could hardly voice the word,
but Miss Dallow did not relax her usual sternness
at the girl’s distress.

“She is not so well,” she said, as if the life of one
little old lady could be of no possible interest to
anybody. “This afternoon she had a heart attack—brought
on by coughing, I do not doubt—and
we were forced to send for the doctor again.” She
put up a thin hand and smoothed her inky black
hair.

“I have never had a death in my house, and it
will be most unpleasant if the worst should happen,”
she said, heartlessly.

Linda pushed her on one side.

“Oh, I hate you! I hate you!” she sobbed,
and ran wildly up the rest of the stairs.

There was no doubt that Mrs. Lovelace was very
ill; she lay all that night with closed eyes, hardly
seeming to breathe, and Linda dared not leave her
or take off her clothes.

Jenny was kindness itself, and a dozen times
Bill Sargent came to the door to know if there was
anything he could do.

Linda shook her head. She could not speak:
in her heart she was sure that Mrs. Lovelace
would die, and her terror of the future knew no
bounds.

To be alone, without anyone of her own. The
thought was a nightmare.

Bill looked at her with sympathetic eyes.

“Won’t they let you stay home from business?”
he asked.

“I haven’t asked them. I don’t like to.”

“Do you think they would?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Robert might—he’s always
been kind.”

Bill turned to the door.

“I’ll ask him for you,” he said, and was gone
before she could protest.

There was no hope in Linda’s heart; she dared
not allow herself to think of hope as she sat beside
her grandmother’s bed, her hands clasped in her
lap, her eyes fixed on the frail little figure lying
there.

She thought of her own mother and wondered
what she would say if Mrs. Lovelace died. Would
she mind? Had she any spark of love for
her? Linda did not think so. She only hoped
that she would never have to see Mrs.
Goring-Wells again. Goring-Wells! What a
name! She shuddered as she thought of the
change she had seen in her mother’s face. She
thanked God she had not told Mrs. Lovelace of
that meeting.

Presently, out of sheer exhaustion, she fell
asleep, her head resting against the hard bedpost,
and when Bill Sargent came back she did
not hear his gentle knock at the sitting-room
door, and he softly turned the handle and
entered.

He called to her in a low voice: “Miss Lovelace!”
and then, after a moment: “Linda!”

There was no answer, and he tiptoed across the
room to the closed door of the bedroom.

“Linda!”

Then he pushed the door gently open and looked
in.

Linda was sleeping heavily, her head thrown
back in discomfort against the iron bedpost, her
slight figure drooping helplessly with utter weariness.

Bill stood watching her for a moment compassionately;
she looked so young, almost a
child, and for the first time he realised how
difficult life must seem to her, and how hard was
the fight which she was called upon to make in the
world.

Then he went forward and touched her arm.

She woke at once, starting up with a cry.

“It’s all right—it’s all right.” He took her
hand, and drew her into the sitting-room. “I
saw Mr. Robert Lorne and explained. He was very
kind, and told me to tell you that you might stay
away from business until Mrs. Lovelace was out
of danger.”

Linda burst into tears; tears of weariness and
gratitude and overwhelming relief, and Bill let
her cry, standing beside her, holding her hand as
if he were indeed the big brother to whom she had
likened him. And then, when her sobbing was
checked, he said gently:

“Now look here, you’ve got to go to bed and
have a good night. The doctor is going to send
in a nurse. Nonsense! of course you can,” he
insisted as she began to protest. “What shall
we do with two of you ill?” he asked banteringly.
“Poor old Dallow downstairs will have a fit with
two invalids on her hands.”

“I hate her; she’s got no heart,” Linda said
brokenly.

“Well, she doesn’t count anyway,” he answered.
“All you’ve got to do is to go to bed and sleep.
Leave the rest to me.”

“You’re so kind, I don’t know what I should
do without you. I shall never be able to thank
you.”

“You have thanked me already by what you
have said.”

“Nobody has ever been so kind to me as you.”

His face softened. “Well, we all have to stand
by one another sometimes,” he said. “Perhaps
some day you’ll have to stand by me.”

She raised her wet eyes.

“Oh, I will! I will!” she promised fervently.

“That’s a bargain then,” he said lightly, and
stooping, touched her hand with his lips.

Chapter VIII

Linda stayed away from business for a week,
during which time she nursed her grandmother
devotedly, hardly leaving her even for a few
moments in the fresh air.

When Bill Sargent came in from the bank he
used to knock at the sitting-room door before he
went up to his own room.

“Have you been out to-day?” was invariably
his first question, and if Linda said no, he would
say:

“Well, put on your hat and go now. I’ll stay
here.”

The nurse whom the doctor had sent in when
Mrs. Lovelace was at her worst had departed,
partly because of the expense, and partly because
the old lady strongly objected to her businesslike
methods.

“I will not be ordered about, and made to eat
when I don’t want to,” she protested almost in
tears, and at last because she was afraid the excitement
would make her grandmother worse,
Linda told the nurse she would not need her any
longer.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders when he
heard, and looked at Linda doubtfully.

“Your grandmother is very ill, and you are
young to take so much responsibility,” he said,
but Linda did not care. She worked day and night
uncomplainingly, till Bill Sargent’s kind heart
ached for her.

“There must be heaps of other things I could
do to help you if you’d only let me,” he said, many
times, in disgruntled fashion. “What’s the use
of a great hulking fellow like me if I can’t do something
for my living.”

Linda only laughed at him.

“You do too much already,” she answered. “I
shall sit still like a lady soon, and allow you to
wait on me hand and foot.”

“I wish you would,” he said, gruffly, and for a
moment there was a little silence, which Linda
broke rather nervously by asking if he had seen
Nelly Sweet or any of the other girls from Lorne
and Dodwell’s.

Bill frowned.

“I’m not Nelly’s keeper,” he protested. “Why
do you always ask me about her? But I saw
another friend of yours the other night,” he added,
maliciously. “That chap Lincoln! He asked
if I knew where you were living: said he had lost
your address.” He looked at her with suspicion.
“Do you write to him, then?” he demanded.

Linda flushed. She had been rather hurt by
the silence with which the Black Prince had treated
her note.

“He asked me to go out with him, and I
was not able to, so of course I had to write,”
she answered.

“I see! Well, he didn’t get your address from
me. I don’t like the way he goes hanging round
after every decent-looking girl he happens to
meet.”

Linda tried to feel angry, but it was not very
successful. She had grown rather fond of Bill and
his bullying manner during the past week, and the
first impetuous emotion she had felt towards
Andrew Lincoln had somewhat faded into the
background.

“I’m sure I don’t want to see him,” she protested
with dignity.

Bill caught her hand.

“Do you mean that?” he demanded.

Her eyes met his a little shamefacedly.

“Yes; why not?”

“Because——” he broke off, turning away.
“Look here,” he said, after a moment. “To-morrow’s
Sunday and you say you’re going back
to business on Monday, so I’ve got a suggestion
to make. Mrs. Lovelace is much better, isn’t
she?’ ”

“Yes—much better, I think.”

“Well, will you have a day in the country with
me to-morrow?”

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, then she shook
her head.

“I couldn’t possibly leave Grannie for a whole
day.”

“Half a day, then! Jenny will look after her!
Just half a day. I’ll take you down to Chorley
Wood—we can have tea, and a walk, and——”

“Isn’t that where you took Nelly?”

His ready frown came again.

“Did she tell you so?”

“Yes, how else should I have known?”

“She chatters about everything,” he complained.
“After all, she wanted to go——”

Linda repented. “So do I want to go,” she said.
“If you are sure it will be all right.”

“Quite sure. We’ll have an early lunch here,
and go directly afterwards. We can be back by
seven if you like.”

“I must ask Grannie.”

Bill smiled shyly.

“I’ve asked her already, and she thinks it’s a
fine idea.”

“Bill!”

He laughed outright.

“Well, why not?”

“I never knew anyone who could get their own
way as easily as you can.”

He made a grimace.

“Easily! I like that; when I’ve been trying
to screw up my courage to ask you to come with
me all the week.”

“Your courage! Are you afraid of me then?”

“Horribly afraid, sometimes.”

“Why?”

He began to tell her, then stopped.

“It will keep. I’ll tell you when I think you
are really interested.”

She did not press the question further; in her
heart she knew that if there were times when Bill
was afraid of her, there were also times when she
was afraid of him.

He had such a way of looking at her—almost as
if she belonged to him.

“How absurd!” she told herself, and dismissed
the thought.

When Bill had gone she went in to Mrs. Lovelace.
The old lady was up and sitting by the fire for the
first time. She looked very frail, and her hands
were as white as the gossamer lace shawl which
was folded round her shoulders. That shawl had
been associated with Linda all her life.

“I gave it to your mother when you were born,”
Mrs. Lovelace told her once. It was the first time
she had mentioned her daughter’s name. “You
used to be wrapped in it when you were quite a
tiny baby. But it wasn’t grand enough when your
father began to make so much money, so it was
discarded for something finer; but I always kept
it—” the old lady added sentimentally, stroking
the soft lace with her slender fingers.

“And if you’re not quite, quite sure that you
won’t mind being left for a whole afternoon, just
say so, and I’ll be quite happy to stay at home,”
Linda urged. “I don’t really want to go, but Mr.
Sargent has been so kind, and he seems anxious
to take me——”

“Go by all means, my dear,” Mrs. Lovelace
answered. “You’ve lost all your colour nursing
me; besides, I like that young man,” she added
reflectively. “Where did you tell me he was—in
a bank?”

“Yes.”

Linda felt a little self-conscious.

“Well, he’s nice, he’s very nice,” Mrs. Lovelace
said again. “I know you will be quite safe
with him.” Her faded eyes sought her granddaughter’s
face earnestly. “Do you like him,
Linda?”

“Of course I do.”

Mrs. Lovelace gave a little sigh, half of relief,
half of sorrow. After a moment she said:

“I’m glad of that, because I think he likes you,
too.”

“Likes me!” Linda opened her eyes wide.
“Why—why, he’s as good as engaged to Nelly
Sweet,” she protested.

“Did he tell you so?” Mrs. Lovelace asked.

Linda shook her head. “No, but Nelly did.”

“Ah!” The old lady looked wise. “That
makes a difference,” she murmured.

Linda went down to Chorley Wood on the
Sunday afternoon with Bill Sargent; it looked
cloudy and inclined to rain when they left
London, but the clouds stayed behind with the
crowded noisy streets, and when they got into the
country the sun was shining and the sky was
blue.

“Do you often come down here?” Linda asked
as they left the little station and walked across the
common.

“Whenever I can. I love the country. I was
born in it, you see. I’ve often thought of applying
for a transfer, from the bank, only sometimes
you lose in the long run by asking favours.”
He hesitated. “Do you like the country?” he
inquired.

“I love it.”

Bill switched at a dandelion with his stick.

“If I got married I should apply for a move and
chance it,” he said rather abruptly.

Linda looked up.

“Oh, are you thinking of getting married?”
she asked, and a little pang touched her heart.

Bill smiled.

“Well, I suppose we all think of it sometimes,
don’t we?”

“I suppose so.”

No doubt it was true that he and Nelly were
almost engaged, if not quite, Linda decided. She
began to wish she had not come out with him after
all; it was silly to go about with a man who
belonged to somebody else; besides, Nelly would
not like it, she was sure.

“If I ever marry, it will be for money,” she said,
suddenly. “I’m tired of being poor.”

Bill frowned.

“Money and love hardly ever go together.”

“Oh, yes, they do,” she answered, airily. “They
must do sometimes, and that’s what I’m looking
for.”

His face took a grim expression.

“It would be no use offering you a little house
in the country with a back garden and perhaps
lots of flowers—eh?” he asked.

She parried the question with sudden shyness.

“Have you got it to offer, then?”

“I could get it. I’ve got a bit of capital, and
I shall get some more when my aunt dies—at
least, I’ve always been led to suppose that I
shall, but I haven’t seen her for years—we had
a row.”

“Oh, what about?”

“I wouldn’t marry the girl she wanted me to.”

“Oh, didn’t you like her?”

“I hated her.”

Linda laughed. “You’re a person of very
strong dislikes, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and strong likes, too. Once I love anyone
it’s for ever.”

She looked at him consideringly: yes, she could
believe that. He had a strong, determined face and a
mouth which looked as if its lines had been carved
in granite.

Bill struck off the beaten pathway a little to the
left.

“We ought to find some primroses here,” he
said. “They were nearly out a fortnight ago
when Nelly and I came.”

Linda said, “Oh, were they?” rather off-handedly;
she was slightly jealous of Nelly.

The primroses were there all right, and she went
down on her knees to pick them.

“Oh, aren’t they sweet?”

“Very.” But his eyes were on her face all the
time.

She bunched a little nosegay together and offered
them to him to smell.

“Did you ever know anything so perfect?”

Bill took the little bunch and fastened them in
his coat.

“Thank you. I look like the tripper I am, I
know—but who cares?”

“I wanted them for Grannie,” she objected.

“You’ll find heaps more.”

They turned into a little copse, where the
trees met overhead, and it was cool and shady.
Bluebells grew here, too, and delicate, graceful
bracken.

“It’s a picture—a picture!” Linda whispered
excitedly, and then forgetting all her previous
statements, she said, “When I marry, I shall come
and live in a place like this, where it’s quiet, and
you can hear the birds sing, and where you can
walk out of your front door without a hat if you
want to, and pick flowers.”

“ ‘Mine be a cot beside the hill,’ ” Bill quoted
softly.

She looked up, her eyes rapt and sentimental.

“Is that poetry?” she asked.

“Yes, don’t you know it? I’ll say it to you.”
Bill took off his hat and ran his fingers through
his thick hair.

“Mine be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear.

A willowy brook that turns a mill

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest:

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy’d porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,

In russet gown and apron blue——”

He broke off, his deep voice ending with a little
rough note, as if of some emotion of which he was
ashamed.

There was a little silence, unbroken save for the
twitter of a young bird in its nest overhead, and
a little rustling in the bracken as a field-mouse stole
by.

It seemed so far away from Hammersmith and
Lorne and Dodwell’s, Linda thought! almost as if
they were in another world, and she wished with a
pang that Mrs. Lovelace could be with them;
it seemed dreadful to think of her cooped up in
the dingy rooms at Miss Dallow’s, whilst down
here in the country there was sunshine and fresh
air and that wonderful inexplicable feeling of being
free!

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Bill asked
abruptly, and she woke from her reverie with a
start.

“Yes, so much! I was just thinking what a
long way off Lorne and Dodwell’s seems, and the
Hammersmith Road.”

His face darkened.

“It’s no life for you in a draper’s shop.”

Her pride rose at once.

“I like it very much,” she said, on the defensive,
“or I should not be there. Everyone is so kind
to me.”

“It’s no life for you, all the same,” he insisted
doggedly. “You ought to be down in the
country. . . .”

She smiled teasingly.

“In your ‘cot beside the hill’—eh?” she
asked.

To her surprise the hot blood rushed to his face,
and his eyes took a fierce expression.

“You are making fun of me,” he said; he walked
on, and left her standing there.

What had she said to annoy him? She hurried
after him all penitence. “Mr. Sargent! Oh,
don’t spoil the lovely day by being cross! What
have I said?”

He stopped, and waited for her.

“Nothing. I was foolish to mind: but I don’t
like being made fun of.”

“I wasn’t making fun of you. I think it would
be lovely to have ‘a little cot beside the hill.’ ”

He turned his face away.

“You don’t mean that! You’d rather be riding
round London in a Daimler over tarred roads than
walking here with me.”

Linda opened her lips to answer him, then closed
them again with a feeling of panic.

What had happened to her that she had changed
so soon? A week ago she could have answered
“Of course I would” and it would have been true,
but now—surely there was no greater happiness
to be found in life than a day in the country with
Bill Sargent.

They had tea outside a little inn overlooking
the common, on a rustic table, with many tame
pigeons strutting round them.

Linda had taken off her hat, and the fresh breeze
had stirred her hair into little curls. She looked
like a schoolgirl, Bill thought, as he watched her
eating thick slices of bread and jam with more
appetite than she had shown for days, and he
wished with all his heart that she need not go back
to London.

For some time he had been racking his brain
for some means whereby he could secure a holiday
for her, but beyond offering right out to pay for
it, no way had occurred to him.

“The country’s the place for her, not London,”
he told himself for the fiftieth time. “She’s not
fit for the sort of life Nelly leads.”

The thought of Nelly touched his conscience.
They had been good friends he and she, and only
yesterday there had been a curt little letter for
him at the bank asking what she had done to offend
him that he never came to see her now.

Poor little Nelly! He liked her well enough,
with her high spirits and ready smile; but compared
with Linda——

“What are you thinking about?” Linda asked
abruptly; and he roused himself with a sigh.

“I was thinking what a pity it is we have to go
back home again.”

“Home!” Linda made a little grimace. “It’s
not much of a home, is it, no matter how hard we
pretend?” She sat silent for a moment thinking
of the home she had once had, and of her mother.
If only her mother had been different! Kinder!
More loving! How different life would have been
for them all.

She wondered why she had not heard from her
again. What had become of her? Perhaps she
had thought things over and repented her offer to
take Linda into her new life.

“Not that I would ever go,” Linda told herself
quickly. But she could not help wondering what
her mother’s second husband was like, and if he
was the man with whom she had gone away that
tragic night.

“The only man I have ever loved——”

Mrs. Lovelace had told her of the contents of the
melodramatic letter which her mother had left
behind, and, young as she was, Linda had been
struck by its incongruity; Mrs. Dawson had never
had it in her to love anyone but herself.

If only things had been different! She pulled
herself up sharply and stole a shy look at Bill.

Well, if they had been different she would never
have met him, for one thing; she found his eyes
upon her.

“How old are you, Miss Lovelace?” he asked
abruptly. “Or is that a question I must not
ask?”

Linda laughed.

“I’m eighteen and I wish I was more.”

“Don’t do that. Eighteen is a fine age. All
the world and life before you”—a little pause—“how
old do you think I am?”

She made a vague guess.

“Twenty-three?”

He laughed rather grimly.

“Twenty-eight! A Methuselah to you, I suppose.”

“I wish I were twenty-eight.”

“And when you are you’ll look back to eighteen
and sigh to be eighteen again.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t think so. I feel somehow . . . as
if I’m shut in in a corner of life just now. I
want to get out”—she flung her arms wide.
“I want to do great things, to be successful!”
She stopped, looking at him with apologetic self-consciousness.
“That was a bit of my father
talking,” she added.

“Was he a successful man?”

“Very, at one time, but he lost all his money.
That’s why I’m here.”

“With me, you mean?”

“I didn’t mean that at all. But things would
have been different if—well——” She did not
finish, and he did not press her. He had guessed
for himself that there must be some story behind
the lives of these two waifs who had strayed
across his path. Miss Dallow’s apartment house
was not the place either for Linda or her grandmother.

“What’s the time?” Linda asked suddenly.

He told her regretfully.

“Half past five.”

“Oughtn’t we to be going back?”

“It will take us over an hour to get home.”

Linda brushed some crumbs from her lap in the
direction of the strutting pigeons.

“Then we must go. The afternoon must have
seemed ages to Grannie.”

“And will you come with me again?” he asked,
when they had paid the bill and were walking back
to the station.

“I will if you ask me to.”

“Oh, I shall ask you all right,” Bill said laconically.

He was very silent going up in the train.

“I suppose he’s had enough of me,” Linda
thought with a pang. “I know I’m not bright
and amusing like Nelly is.”

And again came that swift jealousy of her friend.

Either Nelly cared for Bill, or she did not! And
if she did——

“Well, I don’t want him,” Linda told herself
proudly. “She need not be afraid that I’m trying
to take him away from her.”

“And to-morrow you’ll be back at business,”
Bill said suddenly.

“Yes, Miss Gillet will be glad to have me.”

His eyes twinkled.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me so. She called yesterday and
brought Grannie some grapes. She’s really very
kind, though sometimes she just freezes me up.”

“I don’t know the lady,” Bill said.

“Nelly hates her!” Linda told him with a little
laugh, then stopped. Why did the name of Nelly
so often obtrude itself? There was a vague sense
of uneasiness in her heart.

Although Miss Gillet had called, Nelly had not
been near. Linda wondered what she would say
when they met to-morrow.

She broke into a little run when the house came
in sight; there was a light in her grandmother’s
bedroom, and something of the old fear touched
her heart.

Supposing Mrs. Lovelace was ill again?

Bill overtook her, and caught her hand.

“Don’t be in such a hurry: say good-night to
me first.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“But you are coming in, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but there’ll be crowds of people.”

“Crowds! only Grannie. What difference does
she make?”

He dropped her hand at once.

“Oh, well, if that’s how you feel——”

It wasn’t how she felt; in that moment while he
held her hand, the most absurd impulse had rushed
through her heart; the impulse to lift her face and
kiss him and say “Thank you for being so good to
me. It’s been the happiest day of my life——”

Chapter IX

“Much better,” Linda said gratefully. Her
eyes fell on a box of new Buckinghamshire lace.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried in rapture.

Miss Gillet smiled leniently.

“I thought you would admire it,” she said; she
took up a strand of the beautiful lace and passed
it tenderly through her fingers. “See what fine
texture it is, and all hand-made! We do not
have much demand for it as a rule; this is a special
order for a trousseau.”

She kept Linda busy and interested all the
morning, so that the time passed quickly until
lunch-time came, and Linda went off to look for
Nelly.

To her surprise, she had moved her seat to
another table, and seemed to avoid looking in
Linda’s direction at all.

Something was the matter, then! Did Nelly
know about yesterday and the trip to Chorley
Wood?

Linda hardly ate anything; she liked Nelly, and
it hurt her to feel that there might be trouble
between them.

She waited for her when lunch was over.

“Nelly!”

Nelly looked round ungraciously.

“What do you want? I’m in a hurry.”

“I don’t want anything, only—look here, are
you angry with me?”

“Angry!” Nelly gave a short, unhappy little
laugh. “I’ve no cause to be, of course, have I?”
she sneered.

Linda drew back, her face flushing.

“What do you mean?”

“You know quite well what I mean. I thought
you were my friend, but you can’t be! You’re
not contented with one man, you upset poor old
Joan over the Black Prince, and now that he’s
done with you, you go running after my boy! Oh,
I know.”

“Nelly, how dare you say such things?”

“Oh, I dare quite well; I’m not afraid of you.
I know where you were yesterday—you went out
with Bill. You’re not going to deny it, I suppose?”

“Why should I? He asked me.”

“Is that a good enough reason? I suppose
you’d go out with the devil himself then if he asked
you.”

“Nelly!”

“Oh, don’t Nelly me! I blame myself for ever
trusting you. You’re sly, that’s what you are,
and so’s Bill! I haven’t done with him yet, so he
needn’t think I have. He’s going to hear from
me——”

“Nelly!”

Flynn, the shop-walker, passed at that moment.

“A little quieter, if you please, Miss Sweet,”
he said in his starchy voice.

Nelly turned on her heel.

“I’ll shout the house down if I like,” she
muttered under her breath.

Linda went back to her laces with a heavy heart.
So what she had feared had come true, and Nelly
was jealous.

Well, there was only one cure for it! Her
friendship with Bill must end.

After all, there were plenty of other men in the
world, and she did not wish to steal anyone’s property—plenty
of other men who would be glad to
go about with her—why, even the Black Prince
had asked for her address.

But her heart ached as she thought of Bill. He
was so kind. So dear.

“Mine be a cot beside the hill——”

It seemed a hundred years ago since she had
stood with him amongst the bracken and bluebells
and listened to his clumsy recitation of the
charming verses.

Why did the good things of life go by so quickly?
Why could not the hours stand still when one was
quite, happy.

She waited about after six o’clock, hoping to see
Nelly, but she had either left or was determinedly
avoiding her, and at last she went home, very sad
and dispirited.

The little sitting-room was full of the scent of
the primroses which she and Bill Sargent had picked
the day before, but Linda no longer cared for them.
She blamed herself for having gone to Chorley
Wood with him; after all, Nelly was her friend,
and she knew that Nelly cared for him.

Mrs. Lovelace’s sharp eyes saw the weariness of
her darling’s face.

“Tired, dearest?” she asked anxiously. She
was sure that Linda was finding life too hard, and
she longed to be able to take her away from it
all and put her back amongst the luxury from
which she had been uprooted.

But only that morning she had heard from Mr.
Stern to the effect that there would be less money
for them than he had at first hoped; affairs, it
seemed, were terribly involved, and out of the
ruin all he could promise her was a paltry £85 a
year.

The old lady worried and grieved as she sat
alone during the long days. It was not fair that
some girls should have so much, and others so
little. Here was Linda, fit to hold her own anywhere,
and forced to live in second-rate lodgings
and make friends of anyone who chanced across
her path.

“What have you been doing today?” she asked
with an effort to be cheerful. “And have you
seen Miss Sweet?”

Linda said “Yes—,” but did not pursue the
subject, and silence fell between them.

Overhead she could hear Bill Sargent’s heavy
tread and his cheery whistle, and she dreaded
the moment when he would come downstairs and
knock at the door with his usual kind inquiry,

“Anything I can do for anyone?”

She must not let him come in, no matter how
badly she wanted him to. She must shut him
determinedly out of her life because he belonged to
Nelly.

And then, almost as if he guessed her thoughts,
she heard his step coming down the stairs, and
then his knock on the door.

Mrs. Lovelace looked up.

“That must be Mr. Sargent,” she said. Now
Linda would be more cheerful, she thought; Bill
always made her smile.

But Linda’s face was very cold and grave as she
went to answer that knock.

“Anyone at home?” Bill’s cheery voice came
at once. “Good! Is there anything I can do?
I’m spoiling for a job!”

“I think I won’t to-night,” he said stiffly. “I
only just came along to see if everybody was all
right; but if I’m not wanted——”

He waited a moment, but Linda did not speak,
and he turned away.

“You were not very kind, were you, dear?”
Mrs. Lovelace said timidly when the door was shut
again. “Has he annoyed you, Linda?”

“Oh no, dear.”

“I was sure he had not; he is always such a
gentleman, but—you were not very kind to him,
dear.”

Linda made no reply, but later when Mrs. Lovelace
was in bed and she had put on her hat to
steal out for a little fresh air, she met Bill on the
stairs.

It was impossible to pass on, for he would not
have allowed it.

“How have I offended you, Linda?”

It was not often he addressed her by her Christian
name, and she felt herself paling, though she tried
to smile.

“How absurd! you haven’t offended me.”

“Then will you accept this?” He brought a
box of chocolates from his pocket. “Please take
them,” he added, earnestly.

Linda drew back.

“Thank you, you’re very kind, but . . . I
don’t want to!”

“You mean . . . because they are from me.”

“If you like to put it that way.”

It was the hardest thing she had ever done in
her life, but the thought of Nelly drove her to be
cruel.

Nelly was welcome to him.

For an instant Bill looked at her steadily, his
mouth twitching a little, and she broke out
tremblingly against her will:

“Oh, I don’t want to be unkind—if you understood——”

He drew back.

“I think I understand—perfectly,” he said in a
voice of flint, and the next moment she was
alone.

She went back to the sitting-room feeling rather
dazed; her throat felt constrained as if the tears
were not far off, and everything was unreal and
vague.

It had all happened so suddenly, almost without
consciousness of it, and only now that it was over,
in a revulsion of feeling she told herself that she
had been unfair.

After all, how was Bill to blame?

It was wrong of her to have hurt him just because
Nelly had chosen to be unkind; a dozen times
during a wakeful night she was on the point of
relenting; once she got up, and lighting the gas
wrote him a little note saying she was sorry and
asking him to forget what she had said, but in the
morning she destroyed it.

After all he had belonged to Nelly first, and she
did not want anybody else’s friends; so she went
to business trying to harden her heart, carefully
looking the other way when outside Lorne and
Dodwell’s she saw Nelly Sweet.

Nelly was looking a trifle ashamed, although she
held her head in high defiance; it was not a happy
day for either of them.

During the morning Robert Lorne passed the
lace counter where Linda was winding off yards
of baby Valenciennes insertion with hands that
were not quite steady.

He stopped a moment when he saw her.

“Good morning, Miss Lovelace; how is the
invalid?”

Linda looked up with a grateful smile.

“Thank you, she’s much better. It was so
kind of you to let me stay at home.”

“Not at all. I’m sorry you had the worry.”

But in spite of the kindly words, they sounded
perfunctory, and Linda sighed as he went on.

She could not understand men; they all seemed
so difficult and changeable, and her thoughts went
for a moment to the Black Prince.

He seemed to have vanished utterly from her
life; she wondered if she would ever see him again.
Not that it mattered—not that he counted at all
in comparison with Bill Sargent; but of him she
would not allow herself to think—she had finished
with him.

“Mine be a cot beside the hill.” The words
haunted her, and would not be banished.

At lunch-time Nelly Sweet sat far away, and
Linda wondered if it was her imagination that all
the other girls seemed to avoid her.

“I’m tired and upset, and so everything seems
wrong, of course,” she told herself. “To-morrow
I shall be all right.”

“Have you a headache?” Miss Gillet asked
during the afternoon. “You are so quiet,
and you look so pale. If you would like some
aspirin——”

Linda thanked her hurriedly, but declined.
Her heart had warmed to Miss Gillet since her
kindly thought for her grandmother. She was
beginning to realise that it was not always the
people who said the most who were the most
sincere.

“What did Mr. Robert say to you this morning?”
Miss Gillet asked presently. “As a rule
he never speaks to any of us. I hope he is not
annoyed with you about anything.”

Linda smiled. “Oh, no! He only asked
after my grandmother. He knew she had been
ill.”

Miss Gillet’s face tightened a little, and she
pursed her lips.

“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” she said rather
tartly. She had a rather weak spot in her own
heart for Robert Lorne, and she was vaguely
jealous of his little courtesy to Linda.

But Linda had more important things of which
to think as she went on with her work. When
would she see Bill again? What would he say
to her? That he was a man of his word she was
sure, and she knew he would make no further
overtures to her; any olive branch of peace now
must come from her.

“And that is not at all likely!” she thought
scornfully as she hurried home. “After all, there
are heaps of men in the world.”

But only one Bill, so her heart whispered sorrowfully,
and the tears welled into her eyes as she
climbed the dark staircase to their rooms.

Only one Bill! Only one so kind and unselfish,
at any rate.

As she opened the sitting-room door, she heard
his voice in the hall below through which she had
come, and with a sudden feeling of terror, she
hurried on, closing the door against him.

Mrs. Lovelace was dozing by the fire; she looked
very frail and weak, Linda thought, with a fresh
pang of fear, and she stood for some seconds looking
down at the old lady before with a start she
woke.

“My dear, how long have you been there?”

“I’ve only just come in.” Linda bent to kiss
her hurriedly before she took off her hat. “I’m
going to have tea now. I’m hungry. I didn’t
care for the lunch we had to-day.”

“What did you have?” Mrs. Lovelace asked
interestedly. She found every detail of her granddaughter’s
life of absorbing interest.

Linda had forgotten, but she pretended to
remember.

“Mutton, I think—Irish stew—and jam pudding.”
She moved about, laying the table. “Has anyone
been, Grannie?” Then she laughed at her own
question; so few people ever came to see them,
only Mr. Stern and Bill—and now he would never
come again.

“No, I’ve only seen Jenny all day,” Mrs. Lovelace
said with a little shake of her silvery head.
“But I haven’t been at all dull; as a matter of
fact, I believe I’ve been asleep half the time.”

“It will do you good,” Linda said brightly.
She could hear Bill’s tread overhead now, and the
sound of a drawer opening and shutting. Perhaps
he was going out; he always made a great to-do
about getting dressed when he was going out;
perhaps he had arranged to meet Nelly.

They were at tea when she heard him go downstairs
again; his steps never faltered as he passed
their door; presently she heard him bang the
street door, and his footsteps dying away down the
road.

Mrs. Lovelace must have heard him too, for after
a moment she asked diffidently.

“Linda, have you and Mr. Sargent quarrelled?”

Linda managed to laugh.

“Quarrelled! My dear, why ever should we?”

“I don’t know,” the old lady answered. “But
last night . . . .” she broke off with a little frown.
“And he has not been in at all to-day,” she added.
“And lately he has never missed coming at least
once.”

“He’s going out with Nelly to-night,” Linda
said indifferently. “I suppose he was in a hurry.”

There was a little silence, then Mrs. Lovelace
said, in her emphatic way: “I do not consider
that Miss Sweet is at all suited to him.”

Linda smiled, an April smile.

“Oh, Grannie, why?”

“She is not serious enough; not deep enough.
Mr. Sargent is a man capable of a great affection——”

“Mine be a cot beside the hill——,” sang the
mournful voice of Linda’s heart.

She rose hurriedly, pushing back her chair with
a scraping little sound. “Well, he is quite old
enough to judge for himself,” she said sharply;
then broke off as there came a low knocking at
the door.

Mrs. Lovelace put her slim hands up to her hair,
nervously smoothing it.

“Oh, dear. I’m so untidy. I do hope it is
nobody that matters.”

Linda laughed ruefully.

“Who is it likely to be?” she asked; and she
stifled a sigh as she crossed the room to the door.
She knew well enough whom she could wish it to
be. Then she turned the handle, and fell back
with a sharp cry of anger and distress as she saw
her mother standing there.

If it had been possible to shut the door in the
powdered face of Mrs. Goring-Wells before her
grandmother had recognised her, Linda would have
done so, but there was no time.

Mrs. Goring-Wells was in the room, and smiling
triumphantly before anybody could move or speak,
and Mrs. Lovelace rose to her feet with a little
choking cry of protest.

“You!”

Linda’s mother laughed; she crossed the room,
and would have bent to kiss the old lady, but she
was waved emphatically away.

“How dare you come here! I hoped I should
never have to see you again. How dared you
come here!”

“Grannie, darling!” Linda ran forward and
put her gently back into the chair. “Don’t excite
yourself so; you’ll be ill, you know you will; oh,
please, I beg of you!”

But for once Mrs. Lovelace would not listen;
she was shaking from head to foot, and there
was an angry spot of colour in either of her pale
cheeks.

“How dare you come here?” she panted again.
“After the way you have treated your child; how
dare you!”

Linda’s mother smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“Dear me, how melodramatic we are,” she said
impatiently. “I imagined you would be pleased
to see me, or else I assure you I should not have
taken so much trouble to find you out.” She looked
round the room with disparaging eyes. “Heavens!
why did you choose such a place?”

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” Mrs. Lovelace
said in her shaking voice, which yet maintained
its full dignity. “But such as it is, this is my
home, and I request you to leave it at once.”

“A very nice reception, I must say,” she said.
“Most charming in every way. My own mother
and my own daughter!”

“Your mother who it ashamed to own you,”
Mrs. Lovelace said.

Mrs. Goring-Wells laughed.

“Linda has been coaching you, I can see.” She
looked at the girl, who still stood with one arm
round her grandmother’s shoulders. “I suppose
you have not said anything about our meeting the
other day, Linda?”

“No. I haven’t. I hoped you would not find
us. I hoped I should never see you again,” Linda
answered passionately.

Mrs. Goring-Wells glanced at the modest meal still
lying on the table.

“A high tea!” she said sneeringly. “I see
that you live up to the best traditions of Hammersmith.”

Mrs. Lovelace broke into helpless weeping, and
with a passionate exclamation Linda crossed the
room and opened the door.

“Will you please—go!” she said.

Mrs. Goring-Wells powdered her nose with the
aid of a small gold mirror and a piece of velvet-backed
beaver.

“My dear Linda, I most certainly will not,” she
said calmly. “So you may as well both reconcile
yourselves to listen to what I have to say.” She
glanced at her mother. “It’s no use upsetting
yourself so——” she said with a touch of impatience.
“I’ve shed all the tears I mean to
shed in my life. It’s useless. Nobody minds
if you cry yourself blind, and it makes you look
years older——” she added with a sort of weary
cynicism.

Mrs. Lovelace had covered her face with her frail
hands; she was infinitely pathetic as she sat there,
and such a wave of passionate bitterness rose in
Linda’s heart that for a moment she was afraid
of herself. With a great effort she controlled her
voice.

“Grannie is ill; she has been very ill—and you
will make her worse with all this excitement. Please,
if you have anything to say, come to my room and
say it to me. Please, if you have any pity.”

For a moment she thought that her mother was
going to refuse; then, with a little careless shrug of
her shoulders beneath their expensive furs, she
rose.

“I shall come and say good-bye before I go,”
she said as a parting shot to the weeping little figure
in the chair.

Linda closed the door, and followed her mother
to her own bedroom across the landing.

Her heart was beating fast with indignation, and
tears of passionate anger were not far from her
eyes.

She was terrified of the effect of this agitation
upon Mrs. Lovelace’s delicate constitution: the
doctor had warned her that she must not be excited
or upset.

“The least thing—the least shock or worry
may undo all the good we have done in the past
week,” he had said to her; and now, after all their
care, this had happened.

“What do you want to say to me?” she asked.

Mrs. Goring-Wells applied an absurd handkerchief
to her eyes.

“Linda, you are very cruel! You are all I have
in the world, my only child, and you look at me
as if you hate me.”

“You have your husband,” Linda said. For
the life of her she could not have kept back the
words. What had this woman cared for her, or for
the man who had ruined himself in order to satisfy
her extravagances. “If that is all you have to
say to me——” she went on.

She was longing for her mother to go. She was
longing to go back to Mrs. Lovelace and comfort
her. “Oh, please, please be quick and tell me
what you want to and go——” she broke out in an
agony of impatience.

But Mrs. Goring-Wells was thoroughly enjoying
herself, and refused to be hurried. She loved
scenes, which was partly the reason why she had
treated poor Thomas Dawson to so many during
his lifetime.

“In spite of your treatment, I am willing to give
you everything the heart of a girl could wish for,”
she went on. “I am a rich woman now, and all I
have is yours, Linda—if only you will come and
live with me.”

Linda took a step forward, her eyes very bright
and hard.

“I shall never leave Grannie, never!” she said.
“And if that is all you want to say——”

Mrs. Goring-Wells mopped her eyes very
carefully, lest she should spoil her darkened
lashes.

“You don’t realise what you are refusing,” she
said. “Look at this—place!” The tone of her
voice said “Hovel.” “How can you exist in such
rooms? Look at the wall-paper! Look at the
furniture!”

“It’s clean and comfortable,” Linda said,
defensively. A moment ago she had thought it
terrible, but she resented her mother saying such
things.

“At any rate, we are happy in our own way,”
she insisted. “And we are not in debt; we pay
for everything we have.”

“For a high tea, and bread and butter for breakfast,”
Mrs. Goring-Wells sneered. “After the
careful way I brought you up; after all the delicate
nurturing you had——”

Linda almost laughed; then checked herself.
After all, there was nothing to laugh at; surely
it was only a tragedy?

She said in brave defiance: “I am happier now
than I have ever been; I——” she broke off with
a little smothered exclamation, turning her head;
then suddenly she wrenched open the door and
rushed across the landing to the sitting-room where
they had left Mrs. Lovelace.

Mrs. Goring-Wells, following at a little distance,
saw Linda open the door, and heard the wild cry
she gave.

“Linda! what is it? what——” then she, too,
cried out, and ran forward to the little still figure
lying stretched on the floor by the fire.

“Grannie! Grannie! oh, darling, darling!”

At sound of the agonised cry Jenny came running,
and presently Miss Dallow, and between them
they lifted Mrs. Lovelace and laid her on her bed—the
little single iron bed with its hard mattress.

Mrs. Goring-Wells stood silently by, white beneath
all her rouge and powder, trembling from
head to foot.

Miss Dallow, gaunt, but wonderfully gentle
now, bent over the bed, trying to force some drops
of brandy between the old lady’s white lips. Once
she looked up at Linda, and her beady eyes were
infinitely compassionate.

They had sent for the doctor, but it seemed an
eternity till he came, though in reality it was but a
few moments.

He looked at Mrs. Lovelace and touched her
hand—Linda’s terrified eyes watching him all the
time—then he moved back a step.

Everything that followed was just a confused
nightmare to Linda, through which she walked
like a frozen statue.

She had a vague memory of her mother in
hysterics; of Miss Dallow, a tall, austere figure,
who seemed suddenly to come to life and behave
like a human being—of Jenny in floods of tears,
and of the doctor giving orders which nobody
seemed to obey.

The shock to her own heart and brain was so
great that all emotion and sense of pain was
numbed.

She knew that her grandmother was dead just
as she knew that night must always follow day,
but as yet it conveyed nothing to her; she sat
beside the bed where the little dignified figure lay,
still holding one small, cold hand, which she
mechanically chafed, as if in the despairing hope
of bringing back some warmth to its iciness;
she resisted everyone’s efforts to take her away;
she only shook her head to Jenny’s prayers, and
Miss Dallow’s kindly urging.

“Let me alone; let me alone.” That was all
she wanted.

The doctor took his leave, promising to come
again; Mrs. Goring-Wells departed in a swirl of
draperies and loud sobbing, and presently the house
was quiet once more.

A Miss Tripp, who lodged in a bed-sitting-room
behind Linda’s bedroom, came timidly to the door
once to ask if she could do anything.

She carried a large cup of strong tea in one hand
and a well-worn book of poems in the other, which
she said always comforted her when she was unhappy,
but Linda refused both the tea and the
book, even while she vaguely realised the kindly
thought which prompted the offer.

“People are kind, very kind,” she thought, in
a queer, detached way, but she felt as if she was
shut off from them all in a world where no
sunshine or hope could penetrate again, and in
her heart was a great and abiding hatred of her
mother.

She had done this thing! If she had not come
to the house and made such a scene Mrs. Lovelace
would have been alive now—might have lived for
many years.

A thousand little memories of her childhood
passed before her eyes as she sat there alone in her
sorrow, and in every one of them the sweet face of
the dead woman seemed to stand out, the most
beloved and vivid influence of her life.

“Ribbons and laces for sweet pretty faces,

Oh, come to the market and buy . . . .”

As a tiny child, Mrs. Lovelace had adored Linda,
and done everything in her power to amuse her
and make her happy; as a gawky schoolgirl when
her mother had tried to overdress her and make
her life a burden, there had always been Grannie
to fly to—always Grannie’s room, where one could
be happy and laugh and chatter.

It was all ended now; life lay at Linda’s feet an
empty thing, wherein nobody loved her.

Miss Dallow came to the room again; she took
Linda’s hand and tried to rouse her.

Miss Dallow tried once more, then she shrugged
her shoulders and departed.

In spite of her sympathy, she was very much
perturbed at a death having occurred in her house;
such a thing had never happened before; she
was afraid that the effect on her other lodgers
would be bad; she felt genuinely worried and distressed
as she went downstairs again to her own
domain.

It was past ten then; almost time for her to go
to bed, for she was an early riser and a hard worker,
and was always ready for sleep; but obviously
she could not leave Linda alone; she was at her
wits’ end to know what to do, when there was the
sound of a latchkey in the front door, and the next
moment Bill Sargent walked into the hall.

Miss Dallow knew, as she knew everything else
that went on in her house, that there had been
a friendship between Bill and Linda, so it was
with relief and eagerness that she turned to him
now.

“Oh, Mr. Sargent! How providential! We
are all in such trouble.”

Bill looked up indifferently from his task of boot-scraping
on the mat.

“Oh! What’s up?” he asked casually. He
knew Miss Dallow well, and as a rule the things
which she considered great troubles were small
and unimportant.

“Mrs. Lovelace died suddenly this afternoon.”

Bill turned round as if he had been struck.

“Mrs. Lovelace! Dead!” His face paled; he
made a swift movement towards the stairs, then
stopped, remembering that Linda no longer had
any use for him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said stiffly. “Is—is
anyone there—with her granddaughter, I mean?”

“No, and that is just my trouble. We can’t
rouse her; she won’t move, or eat anything; and
how can I go to bed and leave her alone like that?
It’s beyond the possibilities of humanity.”

Bill’s face seemed to tighten.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked
curtly. He knew well enough what he wanted to
do; what every instinct in his body was urging
him to do, but he possessed an obstinate sort of
pride which had been cut to its quick by Linda’s
unjust dismissal of him.

Miss Dallow hesitated.

“I thought . . . I know you have been
friendly—if you would just try and see if
you can do anything . . . I have done my best
and failed. I——”

Bill was halfway up the stairs before she had
finished speaking; Linda could but shut the door
in his face he told himself grimly, if she did not
want him; but the sitting-room door stood open,
and by the yellow light from a table lamp he saw
the empty room and the closed door beyond leading
to Mrs. Lovelace’s bedroom.

For a moment he stood irresolute; then he went
forward with a determined step, and, crossing the
room, opened it.

“Linda!”

He spoke her name with indescribable tenderness,
and she looked up, and for the first time the blank
shutter which seemed to have fallen across her
face, lifted a little, and he saw the faint foreshadowing
of all she was to suffer when the first
shock had passed.

Her lips moved as if she would have spoken,
but no words came, though he saw that she was
trembling from head to foot, and that she was white
to the very lips.

Bill was naturally a masterful man, and he saw
at once that arguments or persuasions would be
useless; so he just went across the room and picked
her up in his arms as if she had been a child.

“It’s all right, dear, you’ve got me,” he said.

She made the faintest movement as if to resist,
then suddenly she gave in and her head fell to
his shoulder, and so he carried her into the
sitting-room and put her down in the arm-chair,
keeping his arms about her and kneeling down
beside her.

Miss Dallow had followed him hesitatingly upstairs,
and stood now in the doorway.

Chapter X

What was to become of her in the future? That
was the one thought in Linda’s mind when the
first shock of her grandmother’s death began
to pass.

That she could not go on living in these rooms,
where everything was such a painful reminder
of her loss, was certain, and she determined
that nothing should ever induce her to accept her
mother’s offer of a home.

Mrs. Goring-Wells sent an enormous wreath to
the funeral with a heart-broken message attached,
and herself followed in a Rolls-Royce car with
drawn blinds.

She invited Linda to ride with her, but the girl
refused; it cut her to the heart to see her mother
in such luxury when she remembered the circumstances
of her grandmother’s death.

Once when Bill Sargent gently remonstrated
with her, she turned on him fiercely.

“I don’t care if she is my mother. I never wish
to see her again.”

“She is your only relative now, that is all I was
thinking,” Bill said.

He was terribly worried about Linda. He was
sure that she cared nothing for him save as a friend,
and that reason, and her extreme youth, prevented
him from asking her to marry him.

She was only seventeen, and as yet had seen
nothing of the world. It was not fair, he told
himself, to rush her into a promise which she might
afterwards regret and blame him for.

But her loneliness and sorrow cut him to the
heart. What would become of her?

“She must have some relations somewhere,
surely,” he said to the sympathetic Jenny. “We’ve
most of us got too many,” he added with a grim
memory of his own family.

“That we have,” Jenny agreed. “The best
way in my opinion is to be born an orphan.”

She proceeded to tell him the story of her own
life—of her many quarrels with her mother and
elder sister; of the trouble her brothers had been,
and of how her father had drunk himself to
death.

She might have gone on indefinitely but Bill
cut her short by walking out of the room.

He liked Jenny, but he was in no mood just then
to listen to her confidences.

It was the day following the funeral and he knew
that down in Mrs. Lovelace’s room Linda was
crying her heart out.

Robert Lorne had behaved unusually well, and
had given Linda another four days’ leave. Miss
Gillet was inclined to be aggrieved; she told Nelly
Sweet that she had not had so many days off in all
her many years of faithful service to the firm;
she considered that Mr. Robert showed Miss Lovelace
distinct favouritism.

Nelly Sweet tossed her head.

“She’s artful!” she said, bitterly. “She seems
to me to have a way of getting round all the
men.”

She had seen nothing of Bill for some time,
and he had not answered her last letter, so she was
amazed when on leaving the store that night she
found him waiting outside for her.

“Bill!” She rushed at him with flushed cheeks
and excited eyes.

This was like the old days of their friendship;
she put out an eager hand to grasp his arm, but
something in the expression of his face checked her,
and she gave a hard little laugh.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked.

Bill was not a man to beat about the bush; he
told her why he had come without preamble.

“It’s Linda—Miss Lovelace! You know her
grandmother is dead! Well, she’s in great trouble
and alone. I—I know how kind you are, and I
know you have been a good friend to her, so I
thought——”

She broke in roughly:

“You thought I’d do the ministering angel
stunt, and go round and dry her tears, eh? Well,
you’ve barked up the wrong tree this time, my
boy.” She laughed shrilly; in her jealousy and
anger she was even more slangy than usual; there
were hectic spots of colour in her pretty face, and
her eyes blazed.

“I’ve had enough of Linda Lovelace and her
airs and graces,” she stormed. “She pretended
to be my friend, but she’s a sneak—a mean sneak—and
I’ve done with her, and you can tell her so.”

Bill’s obstinate mouth was set in grim lines
he knew Nelly had a temper, because she had given
him a taste of it on one or two occasions before, but
he had never seen her like this; he raised his hat
stiffly and without another word turned to go.

But Nelly was not to be dismissed so easily;
she rushed after him, the tears in her eyes, almost
repentant.

“Oh, Bill! Don’t go like that. We’ve been
such good friends. Oh, how can you be so unkind——”

Bill would not look at her.

“It is you who are unkind—unkind and unjust,”
he said, in a voice of flint. “Miss Lovelace is quite
alone, and very unhappy. I thought if you had
any kind feeling in your heart——”

She stamped her foot.

“Well, then, I haven’t! Has she ever considered
me, I should like to know? All she cares
about is men. First the Black Prince—look how
unhappy she made Joan the night we went to that
dance——”

His lip curled.

“Oh, Joan!” he said cuttingly.

“Yes, Joan,” Nelly insisted. “You may not
like her, but she’s got her feelings same as the rest
of us. Linda tried for him—tried all she knew,
but it didn’t come off, so she turned to you! Oh,
yes, she did, and I shan’t shut up!” she cried, as
he turned on her furiously. “She knew you
belonged to me—she knew I . . . I liked you—and
she only went to live in that house because
she knew you were there, too——”

“You’re mad! You don’t know what you’re
saying.”

“I know quite well, and I’m right! She’s done
her best to take you away from me, the sly—mean
. . . .”

“Nelly, will you be quiet—remember where
you are! Do you want a crowd round us?”

“I don’t care. I don’t care what happens!”
She was sobbing with anger now, the tears running
down her cheeks.

“I’ve been unhappy enough. You haven’t been
near me for ages, and you never answered my last
letter. I thought you liked me——”

“We were never anything but good friends——”

“Oh, weren’t we!” she flashed back at him.
“I never thought of you as a friend, nor did you
of me till that little snake came——”

“If you say another word about Miss Lovelace
I will not stay another moment.”

Her face was scarlet with anger and bitter
jealousy.

“I shall say what I like,” she stormed. “She’s
made a fool of you, that’s what it is. You happened
to be the only man handy at the time, but
if anyone else comes along——”

He caught her arm in fingers of steel.

“Nelly, I warn you, if you won’t stop——”

She laughed scornfully.

“You’re in love with her, that’s what it is!”
she taunted him. “You’re in love with her—with
that designing little——” She broke off,
frightened by the white fury of his face.

“You’re right for once,” he said, in a voice of
deadly calm. “You may as well know that you’re
right. I do love her; I’d marry her to-morrow
if she’d have me, and that’s the truth.” He waited
for a moment, his eyes fiercely challenging her;
then he dropped her hand and turned away without
a word of good-bye.

Nelly walked on like one in a dream. The blood
was singing in her ears, and her heart was beating
so fast that she thought she would suffocate.

She could not believe that all this had really
happened—it seemed more like a scene in a play
at which she had been an onlooker.

Bill had thrown her over! It seemed too
horrible to be true, and he had thrown her over
for a girl of seventeen whom he had only known
for a few weeks—a girl whom she herself had
befriended.

“I loved him—I loved him!” she told herself
frantically, but it was not quite the truth. She
had been fond of Bill, and had looked upon him as
her own property, but it was true that there had
never been anything more than friendship between
them, true that he had never given her to understand
that he intended asking her to marry him.

But her rage at losing him magnified what affection
she had given him a thousandfold, and all
sorts of wild schemes and thoughts filled her mind
as she walked blindly on.

She would commit suicide! She would not live
without him! He would be sorry then! He
would perhaps realise how much he had really
cared for her when he saw her lying somewhere,
stiff and cold, with closed eyes, and her hair all wet
with river water.

Nelly Sweet loved melodrama; she went to all
the plays at the Lyceum, and dreamed of them
for nights afterwards, picturing herself as the ill-used
heroine.

Now this would be a real-life drama, and Bill
would break his heart when he knew what had
happened. . . .

But Bill was not at all the sort of person to break
his heart for such a cause, and very well she knew
it; he would be much more likely to say that she
had behaved like a silly little fool and dismiss her
entirely from his thoughts.

She woke from her reverie with a start to find
that she had almost cannoned into a man who was
coming in the opposite direction.

She murmured an apology, and went on more
briskly.

No, she would not put an end to her life after all;
she would be brave and endure her pain! It
pleased her to think of herself in a black frock,
with lines of patient suffering in her cheery face,
and her bobbed head drooping like Ophelia’s.

But Nelly hated black, and she hated feeling
miserable, and before she had reached the rooms
which she still shared with Joan Astley she had
decided upon a third campaign—revenge.

She would not give in so easily; she would not
tamely submit and hand Bill over to Linda—she
would make a fight for him.

But how? Over her tea she took Joan Astley
into her confidence—Joan who was busy altering
an evening frock, and who sat huddled up by the
window in order to catch the last of the daylight,
her mouth full of pins, and her head too full of her
own concerns to be really interested in Nelly’s,
until Linda’s name was mentioned.

“She’s stolen Bill from me,” Nelly wailed, adding
a third knob of sugar to her tea. “I was kind to
her, Joan, you know I was! and this is how she
repays me.”

Joan looked up.

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Linda Lovelace—the sly little monkey! I
always knew she was artful by her eyes. Looks
as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth——”

“Oh—Linda!” Joan momentarily dropped
her work, and a hard look crept into her eyes.
She knew very little of Linda, but she had her own
reasons for disliking her, and her voice was more
interested when presently she asked: “What do
you mean by saying she’s stolen Bill?”

Nelly explained. “We had an awful scene this
afternoon. He wanted me to go and see her and
be ‘kind’ to her, as he put it”—her voice dropped
into bitter mimicry—“and when I just told him
what I thought about her, he admitted that he
loved her, that he’d marry her if she’d have him!”
Nelly put down a bun she was eating and real tears
trickled down her cheeks. “He belonged to me,
you know he did!” she sobbed. “He always took
me everywhere; he gave me two pairs of gloves
for Christmas.”

Joan sniffed rather inelegantly.

“Gloves don’t mean anything,” she said. “I’ve
had dozens of pairs in my time—if you said
diamonds, now!”

“Bill c-couldn’t af-ford diamonds,” Nelly wailed.
“He’d give them to me if he could—at least he
would have done. Bill was never m-mean.”

There was a little silence during which she finished
the bun, then she broke out again:

“I’ll not hand him over like an old pair of shoes
I’ve done with, or a new pair that don’t fit me. I
won’t give him up without a struggle. I’ll fight
her for him——”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want him,” Joan Astley
suggested.

“Not want him!” Nelly’s eyes flew wide open.
“Of course she wants him,” she declared. “You
bet your life she does. Why, any girl would be
proud of Bill, he’s such a man!”

“She may not think so,” Joan said again quietly.
“And, anyway, if you feel so badly about it all,
why not go to her and tell her the truth.”

“Tell her what?”

“That he was engaged to you.”

“But he wasn’t!” Nelly said.

Joan made an impatient movement.

“Well, you can say so, can’t you? She’s proud,
that Lovelace girl, from what I know of her—she’s
got no end of silly pride. You tell her
that he was engaged to you and she’ll drop him
like a hot potato, that’s my opinion. I’ve no
cause to love her, goodness knows, and if you
want him——”

Nelly rose from her chair, she flew across the
room, and gave Joan a violent hug.

“You darling! What a perfectly splendid
idea.”

Joan frowned and pushed her away.

“Don’t be so boisterous! I’ve just had my hair
waved.”

Nelly did not mind the rebuff; she thought
Joan’s idea was excellent; her mind leapt ahead
to the scene she would make, the appeal she would
adopt.

She would cry, and say that her heart was
broken! She would be very gentle—very subdued.
She would remind Linda that they had
been good friends—she would appeal to all that
was best in her, and Nelly knew well enough that
Linda would be an easy subject.

She would wear her old hat! Not the new one
with the yellow wing in it, because it didn’t look
miserable enough; nobody could look really
broken-hearted with a jaunty yellow wing in one’s
hat. She would wear her old one, and her winter
coat, which was shabby and gave her a rather
forlorn look. She quite enjoyed herself in anticipation
of all she would say and do.

“I shouldn’t let the grass grow under your feet,”
Joan said laconically. She rose and put her
needle and cotton away. “If you mean to do a
thing, do it at once, that’s my motto.”

Nelly gulped down the rest of her tea.

“I’ll go now—this evening!”

Joan flashed a little contemptuous look at her;
she lived with Nelly because at the moment it
suited her plans, but she looked down on her and
thought her uncontrolled and foolish.

“Well, good luck!” she said lazily as she trailed
out of the room.

Nelly put on her hat and coat and went out.

As she walked along she went over again and
again those angry words with Bill Sargent, and
they helped to strengthen her determination. She
thought of all the happy times she had had with
him, the Sundays they had spent together and the
Saturday afternoons; last winter he had taught
her to skate on rollers—at Christmas time he had
taken her to the pantomime. Nelly Sweet would
have been almost equally pleased to share either
of these enjoyments with any other man, but for
the moment at least Bill seemed to be the only
man in her world.

“She shan’t have him! She shan’t!” was the
fierce thought in her wilful mind as she hammered
on the door of Miss Dallow’s house.

Linda opened the door to Nelly Sweet herself,
and for a moment the two girls stood looking
silently at one another, and the hard defiance of
Nelly’s face softened a little as she saw the change
in her friend.

There was a subdued note in her voice when she
spoke.

“May I come in?”

Linda stood aside for her to enter; she had been
hurt by Nelly’s silence during her trouble, but it
had seemed only a small thing in comparison with
her grandmother’s death, and she felt quite indifferent
towards her now as she shut the door and
pushed forward a chair.

“Won’t you sit down?”

It was the unconscious superiority in her voice
that scattered Nelly’s kindlier feelings to the four
winds; she raised her head with a little toss as she
answered:

Linda’s pale face flushed; so it was not a friendly
visit—well, the sooner it was over, then, the
better!

She stood quietly waiting for Nelly to speak,
but her heatbeats were uneven, and there was a
shadow of dread in her eyes.

Nelly took the plunge with desperate bravado.

“I’ve come about Bill.”

“Oh!”

“There’s no need to pretend,” Nelly went on,
gaining courage with the sound of her own voice.
“You know what I think about you and him
already—well, now I think some more!”

Linda did not speak; there seemed nothing
to say; but her heart gave a little frightened
flutter.

And then all at once Nelly’s manner changed;
she took a swift step forward and dropped on her
knees in a very theatrical manner, her hands
clasped.

“Don’t take him away from me. Linda—don’t!”

Linda drew back a step, flushing nervously.

“Oh, Nelly, do get up—do get up! Whatever
is the matter with you? How can you be so . . .
silly?”

“Silly!” Nelly got quickly to her feet, brushing
her skirt with an angry hand.

“Very well, if it’s to be war”—she said darkly—“you
had better understand, once and for all,
that I’m not giving Bill up to you. He belonged
to me before he ever heard of you—he promised
to marry me——”

“You told me that you were only friends,” Linda
gasped.

Nelly tossed her head.

“Do you think I tell you everything? We
were engaged, I tell you. Everybody at Lorne’s
knew it. Ask Joan! Ask your precious Miss
Gillet. We were only waiting till he got another
rise to get married. Last Boxing Day he came
to tea with my sister—everyone looks upon it as a
settled thing; and if you think I’m going to hand
him over to you without a struggle——”

Linda winced; she felt as if she was listening
to this flow of extravagant words in a dream, and
the cheapness of them made her feel sick and
ashamed.

To fight over a man! What would her grandmother
say if she could know? She found her
voice with an effort.

“You’re mistaken, Nelly, quite mistaken. I
don’t . . . want him, as you put it. Mr. Sargent
is nothing to me, and never will be.”

Nelly gave a short laugh.

“That’s what you say, but I don’t believe you.
Why, only this evening he told me he liked you
better than me—he said he would marry you if
you would have him!”

The hot blood rushed in a wave of great confusion
from Linda’s chin to her forehead.

“He said—that!” she faltered.

“Yes, he did—but I suppose you made him!”
Nelly retorted.

She wished now that she had not been quite so
communicative; after all, there was no need to
have told Linda what Bill had said; in her anger
and mortification she resorted to a burst of tears.

“It’s all very well for you! Lots of men like
you,” she sobbed. “I’ve never had anyone but
Bill. I love him! I love him most awfully!”
she added.

Linda walked over to the window and stood
looking out into the darkening street.

So she was to lose Bill as well, for she knew that
her pride would never allow her to take him now,
even supposing he asked her!

She listened to Nelly’s theatrical sobbing with a
curious sense of hurt.

She had liked Nelly, and been glad of her friendship,
and it had all come to an ending because of a
man! A man—quite an ordinary man, with kind
eyes and a masterful mouth, whom they both
loved.

She turned round with an effort.

“Oh, don’t cry,” she said, with a touch of anger.
She was ill and overstrung, and she felt that she
could stand no more. But Nelly sobbed on. “I
suppose you call it common of me to come to you
like this, but I can’t keep things to myself. If I
think a thing, or want to say a thing, I have to say
it. I have to have it out. I should go mad if I
kept it to myself and brooded over it.”

She was watching Linda cautiously from behind
her pink-edged handkerchief.

“You can’t love him like I do,” she said as a
last thrust. “You’ve only known him for such
a little while, and he’s years—years older than you
are!”

He was years older than she was, too, if it came
to that, but for the moment, at all events, she had
forgotten it.

Linda gave an unhappy little laugh.

“You need not say any more,” she said hardily.
“I am not at all likely to see much more of—of Mr.
Sargent. I am leaving this house as soon as I can
find somewhere else to go.”

Nelly’s tears dried as if by magic.

“Leaving here! When?” she asked.

“I have told you—as soon as I can find somewhere
else to go.”

“Does Bill know?”

“I have not told him.”

Nelly stowed her handkerchief away; in spite
of her noisy sobbing she did not seem to have shed
many tears.

“Are you going to stay on at Lorne’s?” she
asked after a moment.

“Yes. I suppose so.”

Linda spoke indifferently; she did not care at all
what became of her; she felt as if someone had
suddenly built an impassable wall across the roadway
of her life, bringing her to a full-stop in everything.

Nelly began to put on her gloves; she walked
to the mirror and straightened her second-best
hat. She was not at all sure that the interview
had been quite satisfactory, even though she
seemed to have achieved the object for which she
had come.

“I’m sure I was awfully sorry to hear about
poor Mrs. Lovelace,” she said with glib awkwardness.
“I thought she was so much better.”

“So she was.” Linda could hardly control
herself to answer; it hurt dreadfully to hear Nelly
speak of her loved one so carelessly.

“She died very suddenly in the end,” she felt
forced to add in order to prevent further questioning.

But Nelly had not done yet.

“Yes, so we heard; you found her dead on the
floor, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How dreadful! I should have died myself
if it had been me.”

Linda passed her and opened the door.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not very well. If you
would not mind going——”

Nelly tossed her head.

“Oh, very well. If you prefer my room to my
company——”

She flounced away, and downstairs Linda heard
her slam the front door after her.

She walked up and down the room, wringing
her hands; too unhappy to cry, not knowing what
to do with herself.

She hated going out—she felt more lonely in
the busy streets than in this quiet room, and yet
here everything served to remind her of her loss.

She bore it for a few moments, then put on her
hat and went out. As she reached the path a big
car turned noiselessly into the street and drew
up at the curb. Linda glanced at it casually, then
she stood still, for she knew that the car was
Andrew Lincoln’s, before the door opened and
Lincoln himself got out.

When he saw Linda he came forward with a
little exclamation of pleasure.

“Miss Lovelace! At last!” He took Linda’s
unresponsive hand in his, looking eagerly into her
pale face; then he seemed suddenly to realise that
she was dressed in mourning, and his expression
changed. “What is the matter? You have had
some trouble?”

She tried to smile, but her lips trembled too
badly, and the tears welled into her eyes.

He was still holding her hand, regardless of his
own chauffeur, or the interested eyes of a group of
small boys who were watching.

He was a man who utterly disregarded appearances;
in fact, he rather liked to do things which
aroused comment.

“You were going for a walk,” he said. “Well,
won’t you be kind and let me take you for a drive?
It will do you good. We’ll go round the park if
you like, or anywhere else.”

Before she knew she had accepted they were
driving away together, watched by Miss Dallow
from the shelter of her starched lace curtains.

She had never liked Linda, and she was glad to
have witnessed the little episode at her gate.

“I always knew she was that kind of girl,” she
told herself as the big car swung noiselessly round
the corner and disappeared. “It’s a good thing
she’s going. I should have given her notice anyhow.”

And in the shelter of the car the Black Prince
still held Linda’s hand and volubly explained
why he had not been to see her before.

“I’ve been ill. Nothing serious, but it was a
nasty touch of ’flu, and I wasn’t allowed to go out;
and when I did you were away from Lorne’s and I
couldn’t find out where you were. I went to your
old address, but they could tell me nothing, and
Joan Astley was like an oyster and refused to
speak.”

Linda laughed shakily. There was something
irresistible in this man’s breeziness, and, in spite
of herself, she was glad to see him again. She
felt as if someone had opened a window in her life
and let in a refreshing breeze. Presently she drew
her hand away from his.

“It was kind of you to come to see me.”

“Kind! I’ve been wanting to come for weeks.
I’m only so sorry about this——” he touched the
black sleeve of her coat.

Linda looked away from him.

“Yes. It’s like . . . like the end of everything
for me,” she said piteously.

“Oh, you must not say that,” he told her gently.
“You are so young, and you’ve got all your life
before you. We all forget, thank God! Life
would not be possible if one went on grieving
always.”

She made no answer, and presently he asked,
as Nelly had done, “Are you staying on at
Lorne’s?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I must for the present at
least. They’ve been very kind to me.”

He hesitated, looking away from her.

“There is nothing else you would prefer to do?”
he asked.

Linda smiled; there were a great many things
which she would prefer to do, but they were beyond
the limits of possibility.

“Beggars cannot be choosers, can they?” she
said.

He seemed to be considering something, and then
suddenly he said:

“Miss Lovelace, how would you like to start in a
business of your own?”

Linda turned her head and stared at him with
eyes of frank amazement; she was sure that he
must be laughing at her.

“Of my own? I couldn’t,” she said.

He laughed.

“Oh, yes, you could,” he contradicted her gently.
“Lots of women go into business without knowing
a thing about it. But they get a good manager or
manageress, and influence does the rest.”

“But you see I haven’t any influence,” said
Linda, dazedly.

The Black Prince looked at her with a diffident
smile.

“There’s me,” he said.

“You!” She stared at him with wide eyes.
“What . . . what do you mean?” she faltered
at last.

“I mean just what I say. Look here, I’ll explain.
I know a woman who’s got a bit of capital,
and all the knowledge that’s necessary. She’s
been a buyer to one of the big firms for years—never
mind which! She quarrelled with them, and
she wants to start on her own, but she hasn’t got
quite enough money, so she’s been looking round
to find someone who can help her.”

“But I haven’t any money,” Linda said.

He laughed.

“I know, but I have! At least, I could get it
if I chose.”

But still she did not understand, and he went
on patiently.

“I’ve told her—this woman—that I’m willing
to put up the rest of the capital she wants on condition
she takes a friend of mine into partnership
with her. She’s no beauty herself—she’s middle-aged,
for one thing, and nowadays it wants someone
young and pretty to run the sort of show I
propose to run. All you’ve got to do is to wear
pretty clothes and be nice to the customers!”

“We could soon make you look a year or two
older,” he told her with confidence. “You want
differently dressing, of course, but the thing’s easy
enough. I’ve seen just the place that will do.
I’ll have it all done up properly—striped curtains
and cushions, and grey paint, and all the usual
stunts. And then we must think of a name—‘Dorreen’
or ‘Loelia,’ or something like that.”
He laughed. “Why do you look so amazed?”
he asked.

Linda gasped.

“But . . . but . . . Oh, how could I do
such a thing, with your money? Why should
you be so kind to me? Why should you spend
your money on me?”

He had the grace to flush beneath her innocent
eyes.

“Well, I must spend it on somebody,” he said
rather shortly. “And if I like to help you—well,
why not? It’s the sort of thing that’s done every
day. How do you think all these little shops and
bonnet-boxes are run? They’ve all got a backer.”

Linda drew a long breath.

“I never knew there was so much kindness in
the world,” she said.

His eyes fell, and for a moment he was silent,
then he said with a shade of diffidence:

“I don’t want to rush you into anything; but
Lorne’s is not the place for you. You’re fit for
much better things. Lorne’s is all right, of course,
for girl’s like Nelly Sweet——”

“And Joan Astley,” Linda said as he paused.

He frowned at that, then laughed.

“That was a nasty one, certainly,” he admitted.
“But you’re not Joan Astley; you’re the sort of
girl who will do great things if you’re given the
chance. Well, I want to give it to you.”

“I don’t know what to say—how to thank you!
Nobody has ever been so kind to me before—”
and then, with a little passionate note of regret
in her voice, she added, “Oh, I wish Grannie could
know!”

The Black Prince cleared his throat. Perhaps
he knew how strongly Mrs. Lovelace would have
objected to his scheme had she been alive; perhaps
he knew that if she had been there to consult he
would not have made the suggestion at all.

“If you’ve got anybody you’d like to consult
about it,” he said diffidently. “There’s no hurry.
I should like you to take your time.”

Linda shook her head.

“There isn’t anybody,” she said rather painfully.

But she thought of Bill Sargent, and it hurt.

A little flash of triumph lit the dark eyes of the
man beside her.

“Well, supposing we have a little dinner together
somewhere and talk it over?” he suggested.

He spoke to his chauffeur, and the car was
turned about.

“Where are we going?” Linda asked.

She was feeling better for the fresh excitement,
and for the moment her troubles had receded a
little into the distance. This man was a kind
friend; she had never thought it possible for any
one to be so disinterestedly generous to her. She
was too young and inexperienced to realise that
few kind actions are without an ulterior motive;
she felt full of excitement as she looked into the
future.

To be in business on her own account, and at
the very young age of seventeen!

She wished passionately that her grandmother
could know of this wonderful luck which had
befallen her; she wondered what Mrs. Goring-Wells
would say when she heard about it.

“Of course, it may not ever happen. He may
change his mind,” she told herself, but at any rate
the thought of the possibility was wonderful.

The car stopped at a big block of buildings, and
the Black Prince got out, turning to assist Linda.

“But this isn’t a restaurant!” she said, amazed.

He laughed. “No—I’ve got a flat here. I
thought we should be quieter alone. Restaurants
are such noisy places when you want to talk business.”

“Oh!” she drew back a step; for the first time
a doubt crept into her mind. “I’m not sure if I
ought to go to your rooms,” she said, then flushed,
wondering if he would think her very old-fashioned.

But he only answered calmly that it was a very
ordinary thing to do nowadays. “I assure you
I’ve had lots of ladies to lunch and dinner in my
rooms,” he said, which was the truth. “Besides,
I should like you to see them. I flatter myself
they’re worth seeing.”

He dismissed the car, and led the way up the
steps to the building, and there seemed nothing
further to be said, so Linda followed.

There was a large man at the door in uniform
who saluted respectfully when he saw who was her
companion, and there was a smart little boy in
buttons who whirled them upstairs in a noiseless
electric lift, and deposited them on the third floor.

Linda looked around her with pleased eyes.
Although she had made the best of their rooms
at Miss Dallow’s, she had often thought wistfully
of the luxury with which she had been surrounded
in her childhood, and this was like a return to it.

The room into which Lincoln led her was carpeted
with soft, rich blue pile, and there were curtains
of real lace.

Linda’s eyes dilated as she looked at them; they
must have cost a small fortune, she was sure.

There was not much furniture, but it was all
expensive and in exquisite taste, and the few
pictures on the plain white walls were gems of
artistry.

Lincoln drew up a chair for her.

“Please sit down! I’ll go and hunt up my
man.”

He disappeared through another door, and Linda
was left alone.

She sat as still as a little mouse and looked around
her.

There was a cut-glass bowl of yellow roses on the
polished table, and several pieces of antique silver
on the mantelshelf.

Everything breathed the perfection of taste
and the height of luxury; she had risen and was
bending over the bowl of roses to inhale their perfume
when the Black Prince came back again.

“I’ve ordered dinner, and it will be ready in
half an hour. You would like to take off your
hat. You will find brushes and everything you
want in there——”

He indicated a second door on the other side of
the room, and Linda went to it timidly.

She supposed she was very silly and unsophisticated,
but in spite of her pleasure in her surroundings,
she did not feel happy or at her ease.

She found herself in a small bedroom with a
fitted washstand, and a silver mirror hanging
above it.

There were ivory brushes on a marble shelf, and
even a box of powder.

She took off her hat diffidently and brushed her
hair.

In the silver mirror she thought that her black-robed
reflection looked out of keeping with the
beautiful room, and again a sense of great timidity
seized her.

“But how absurd, when he is so kind,” she
chided herself.

She put on her hat again, and went back to the
sitting-room.

Lincoln was standing, back to the fireplace,
reading a paper which he put down at once, when
she entered.

“Rather keep your hat on?” he asked casually.
“Won’t it make your head ache? Very well, just
as you like, of course.”

He spoke so naturally and seemed so ordinary
that her courage rose again. After all, if other
girls had been here it must be all right, and, anyway,
what could happen to her?

“And how do you like my rooms?” the Black
Prince inquired.

Linda’s eyes glowed.

“I think they’re lovely. I should like to live
here for ever,” she said, impulsively, and then
stopped with a quick breath, realising that she
had said too much, and at the same moment an
unkind memory of Bill flashed across her mind—

“Mine be a cot beside the hill—

A beehive’s hum shall soothe my ear,

A willowy brook that turns a mill

With many a fall shall linger near——”

And with the memory of that sunny afternoon
and the fresh air of the open country, and Bill
with his gruff voice wonderfully softened as he
spoke the words, back came her sense of fear and
uneasiness.

She half rose to her feet, the words: “Oh, I
think I would rather not stay here,” came to her
lips, but they were never spoken, for at that moment
the door opened, and a man-servant entered
with a tray, and a white cloth across his arm.

He began to lay the table for dinner, and Linda
watched him with fascinated eyes, feeling sure
that she was just dreaming all this, and that in a
moment she would wake up, and find herself back
in her loneliness at Miss Dallow’s.

The Black Prince broke in upon her thoughts.

“Are you fond of photographs, Miss Lovelace?
I have a fine collection of my many travels if you
would care to see them.”

He brought a large album across to her and
opened it.

His manner was purely impersonal and polite,
as he explained the different views and pictures.

“I took this in the Tyrol last summer. You’ve
never been there, I suppose? Well, you must go
some day. I think I prefer Austria to any other
country I ever visited.”

Linda smiled. “I am afraid I am not very
likely to go abroad at all,” she said. “It costs so
much money.”

“Somebody will take you some day,” he answered.
“And this—this is Venice! you must
go there, too—that is a photograph of the Doge’s
Palace. It’s a wonderful place—full of romance.
Are you fond of romantic spots, I wonder?”

“I think I should be if I had the chance,” she
told him.

“Dinner is served, sir,” said a voice behind
them, and the Black Prince closed the book and
rose to his feet.

“Good! I hope you are hungry, Miss Lovelace.
I am.”

They sat opposite one another at the small round
table, and the manservant waited on them.

There was soup and some sort of entrées which
Linda had never eaten before, and tiny spring
chickens and asparagus.

“What would you like to drink?” Lincoln
asked, and he laughed when she said firmly,
“Water, please.”

“Only water! Isn’t that rather dull?”

“I’d prefer it, please.”

“Very well, then I’ll drink the same. Water
for us both, please, Gran.”

There was an enigmatical smile on Gran’s grave
face as he turned to obey.

Chapter XI

It was nearly eleven o’clock before Linda got back
to Miss Dallow’s that night.

Andrew Lincoln himself brought her back in a
taxi, acceding to her timid request to stop at the
corner of the street and let her walk to the house
alone.

It had been quite a successful evening, and he
had been most kind, but as she said good-night to
him and hurried away through the darkness it
suddenly struck Linda with a sense of surprise,
how very little business had been discussed.

He had shown her photographs and books, and
treasure which he had bought in odd corners of
the world, but only just as she was leaving had
he mentioned the greatest subject of all between
them.

“Then I have your permission to go ahead and
arrange things? We must fix a meeting between
you and the lady I spoke to you about. Her
name is Mrs. Johnson.”

Linda thanked him rather agitatedly.

“Then you did really mean it?” she said. “I
thought perhaps it was . . . . well, that you had
only just said it.”

He laughed. “I always mean what I say.”

She thought of that now as she ran up the steps
to the front door of Miss Dallow’s house and let
herself in.

There was a dim light burning in the hall, and
she slipped off her shoes and went upstairs in her
stockinged feet so as not to be heard.

But as she closed her bedroom door, almost instantly
there was a sound outside and someone
tapping softly.

She stood still, breathing fast.

“Yes, who is it?”

“It’s me! Bill! I only wanted to know if you
were all right.”

She managed a shaky laugh.

“Yes, of course!”

There was a little silence, then Bill asked, with
a gruff note in his voice: “Where have you
been?”

“Only out with a friend.”

“Oh.” There was a little silence, then “Good-night”
Bill said, and she heard him go upstairs
again.

But in the morning, when she left the house for
Lorne and Dodwell’s, he was waiting for her down
the road.

He looked rather tired and his face was a little
grim as he greeted her.

“You gave me a scare last night,” he began
bluntly. “I could not imagine what had become
of you. Why were you so late home?”

“I told you. I went out with a friend.”

“What friend?”

The directness of the question sent the blood
racing to her face, but she remembered the many
bitter things which Nelly Sweet had said to her,
and she answered defiantly that she did not see
what business it was of his.

“It’s my business because I love you,” said Bill.

He had not intended to say it; it was the last
thing he had intended to tell her, but the words
escaped him against his will.

He had been racked with anxiety on her account
last night and torn with jealousy.

He had wandered about the street for hours
looking for her, and had found it impossible to
rest until he knew she was safely in her room.

Linda caught her breath with a little gasp, and
Bill said again in his dogged way:

“I didn’t mean to say that, but I couldn’t help
it. I do love you, Linda, and I want to marry
you.”

She looked at him with a wild hope in her eyes.
Was this the truth? Then back came the memory
of Nelly, of her tears and her pleading. “Don’t
take him away from me, oh don’t.”

She found her voice with an effort.

“You can’t mean that. You hardly know
me.”

“One doesn’t need to know a person for years
before it is possible to love them,” Bill said. “And
I love you. I shall never love anyone else. I want
to look after you, and make a home for you. You’re
so young and lonely. What are you going to do
with your life?”

“I’m going to start in business for myself,”
Linda said.

Bill stared at her, then he laughed. “Is it a
joke?” he asked.

“A joke!” Indignant colour dyed her face.
“Certainly it is not a joke. I have a friend who is
going to start me in business.”

They were at the end of the road where their
ways diverged, and Bill stood still.

“There is no time to argue now,” he said,
harshly. “Will you spend the evening with
me?”

“I can’t . . . .” She could not meet his eyes.
“At least, no, I am afraid I can’t to-night, thank
you all the same.”

“You mean that you don’t want to?” he
challenged her.

She would not answer that, and Bill said
again: “You are not going to turn me down
again without some good and sufficient reason,
so the sooner you understand that, the better
for both of us, Linda. I’ll say good-bye for the
present.”

He raised his hat and turned away.

Linda went on, her heart beating fast.

“It is my business because I love you.”

They were the sweetest words she had ever had
spoken to her, and yet . . . . “He belongs to
Nelly. I don’t want him,” she told herself proudly.
She was late at business.

Miss Gillet greeted her with an acid smile. “Did
you oversleep yourself, Miss Lovelace?” she
asked.

Linda flushed, and made no answer; it rose to
her lips to say that she would not be at Lorne’s
much longer, that she was going into business for
herself, but she was afraid. Miss Gillet’s eyes were
so keen and critical, and Linda could not bear to
be laughed at.

Nelly Sweet ignored her at lunch, and Joan
Astley swept past her as if she did not exist.

Linda told herself she did not care.

“I’ll make them sorry. I’ll make them all
sorry for it,” she thought, with great bitterness.

But she felt lonely and unhappy, and the
thought of going back to empty rooms chilled
her heart.

She was afraid of meeting Bill again; there was
something brutal in him when he was angry,
and she knew that he was angry! She could not
imagine what he would say when she told him with
whom she had been last evening, or who was the
friend who had offered to finance her in a business
venture.

“I don’t care! It’s nothing to do with Bill,”
she comforted herself, but it was poor comfort.

Bill would have cut off his right hand for her
and never felt the pain, she knew, and tried not
to know it.

Well, she would show him! She would make
him proud of her! The little shop with her name
over the door dazzled her eyes, and put everything
else out of perspective, as the Black Prince had
intended it should do.

Only seventeen, and running a business of her
own! What would Robert Lorne say? What
would Nelly Sweet say?

She went home by a circuitous route when she
left the shop that evening; she had her tea out.
The thought of those silent empty rooms was a
nightmare, and at the same time a reproach.

Mrs. Lovelace had liked Bill and trusted him;
Linda wondered what she would have thought of
the Black Prince.

“I shall make my own way in the world,” she
told herself. “I shall make a name for myself.”

It was her father’s commercial, ambitious
instinct making itself shown in her and crushing
other and better emotions. Her mind was
full of the future and the great things she
would do when at last she turned her steps to Miss
Dallow’s.

Jenny met her in the hallway, looking mysterious
and important.

“Your mother’s upstairs,” she said in a stage
whisper. “She’s been waiting an hour or more.”

Mrs. Goring-Wells was sitting by the table in
Linda’s sitting-room, swathed in heavy mourning,
and with a look of martyred resignation on her
face.

She rose dramatically to her feet when the girl
entered and held out her arms.

“You are very cruel to me; cruel and unforgiving;
but I bear no ill-will to you, Linda, and
that is why I am here. I had a long heart-to-heart
talk with your stepfather last night, and he
is willing, more than willing, to receive you into his
house.”

Linda drew a deep breath.

“He is very kind, but I shall not come,” she
said, quietly.

Mrs. Goring-Wells gasped.

“Not come! You must be mad! You are
throwing away the chance of a lifetime. He is a
rich man—a very rich man! And you are all we
have to consider. Some day you may be an
heiress. Any other girl would be mad with delight
at the prospect. Look what we can do for you!
Look how I can take you about with me! Your
father knows all the people who are worth knowing;
you may make a great match.”

Linda stood immovable, not answering, and for
some moments her mother went on, painting the
future in exaggerated, roseate hues, promising
things far beyond her power.

When she found it was all of no avail she changed
her tactics.

“Then what, may I ask, do you intend to do?”
she asked.

The glimmer of a smile crept into Linda’s face.

“I am going to start in business on my own
account,” she said firmly.

Mrs. Goring-Wells screamed.

“The girl is mad!” she flung her eyes up to the
ceiling, she wrung her hands. “My poor child,
what do you know about business, and where can
you get your capital from?”

“A friend will see to that for me,”

“A friend!” Mrs. Goring-Wells snapped her
fingers. “What friend have you who can be of
the least assistance in such a case?” she sneered.

Linda did not tell her.

“I shall bring your stepfather to reason with
you.” Her mother went on: “You are headstrong
and foolish, as your poor father was. Allow
me to remind you also that you are not of age and
that I can use my authority to prevent you from
such foolishness.”

Linda smiled.

“I don’t think you can; you left me, you know—I
don’t think you can do anything.”

But there was fear in her heart. She knew
nothing of the law, and she knew that her mother
might be right in what she said.

“At any rate it is impossible for you to go on
living here,” Mrs. Goring-Wells insisted. “I had
a little talk with the maid before you came in, and
she seems a nice honest girl. She tells me that
there is a young man living upstairs—a bank clerk—who
has been very kind to you. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Her mother sneered.

“He probably knows whose daughter you are,
and imagines that you will have money. I know
the type of man exactly—small and dapper, with
a spotted tie, and no ambitions. Linda, let me
beseech of you——”

There was a knock at the door; Linda turned
and opened it.

“Here is Mr. Sargent, mother,” she said, quietly.
“Now you can see for yourself what he is like.”

Bill walked into the room, and Mrs. Goring-Wells
rose.

“Oh, how do you do?” she said sweetly. “I
think we have met before. But now the opportunity
is here, I feel that I must just thank you—thank
you very gratefully for your kindness to
my little girl. She tells me that she does not know
what she would have done without you.”

Bill did not believe her, but he bowed gravely
and stood waiting.

“You look a sensible man, Mr. Sargent,” Mrs.
Goring-Wells went on, “a good man of business
also I do not doubt, so I feel I am doing right when
I appeal to you to influence Linda against this
absurd idea which somebody has put into her head.”

“It is not an absurd idea,” Linda interrupted
firmly, “and I shall do it.”

Mrs. Goring-Wells applied her handkerchief to
a tearless eye.

“Your place is with me,” she faltered. “Mr.
Sargent, a daughter’s place is with her mother—you
will agree.”

“It all depends,” said Bill.

He listened patiently while Mrs. Goring-Wells
bewailed the world’s ingratitude and her own
many bitter disappointments and disillusions;
when at last she had done he escorted her downstairs
and called a taxicab for her. He was patient
and polite to the last, but when she had gone he
went up the stairs two at a time, and into Linda’s
sitting-room.

She had got to listen to him, she knew, and the
sooner it was over and done with the better. But
she took her time, hoping against hope that she
would wear his patience out and find him gone,
but Bill was not a man to be turned from his purpose,
and presently they were walking together
down the road.

Linda wondered what he was going to say—her
heart beat a little faster at the memory of what
he had said last night—

“I love you. I want to marry you.”

She hoped yet dreaded that he would say it
again. She did not intend to marry Bill—she did
not intend to marry anybody. Ambition had her
in its grip, and her eyes were straining far ahead
into a future wherein she would be successful.

But what Bill said was—

“Well, I’ve found out who your friend is.”

She was so amazed that she stood still, staring
at him, and he went on in a voice of flint:

“I’ve found out that you went to that . . .
that blackguard’s rooms last night, and had supper
there.”

“And if I did?”

His self-control broke down.

“Don’t you know the world any better than
that?” he raved at her. “Hasn’t anybody told
you what that man’s character is? Are you such
a child that you cannot judge for yourself?”

“How dare you say such things? He is my
friend.”

She was as angry as he now, and her voice
trembled with indignation. “There is nothing to
be said against him. I like him—I know I can
trust him——”

“Trust him! bah!” Bill laughed bitterly.

“Trust him! Yes, about as much as you can
trust a mad dog.”

“You don’t know what you are saying; you
would not dare say all these things if he were
here.”

“If he were here!” Bill spoke from between
clenched teeth. “If he were here, I would kick
him into the gutter for daring to take you to his
rooms last night.” Then his mood changed suddenly
and his rough voice was wonderful in its
tenderness.

“Oh, my dear! It’s only because I think so
much of you that I am saying all this. You’re so
young! You don’t know the world as I do, and
you’ve nobody to look after you.” He laid his
hand on her arm, and she could feel how he was
trembling. “Give me the right to protect you,
Linda. Give me the right! I’ll make you so
happy; I’ll love you so well——”

They were walking on again, down a side
street which was quiet and deserted, and Bill’s
earnest voice seemed the only sound in all the
world.

He went on: “I’m not a rich man, but money
isn’t everything. I know you don’t love me—not
as I love you; but you will! I can make you.
Answer me, Linda—answer me, my dear.”

Linda listened like one in a dream.

It was very sweet to be told that he loved her,
and yet she was still blinded by thoughts of the
future which had been promised to her by Andrew
Lincoln.

To be someone, to carve a way for herself in
life, seemed a great ambition—an ambition which
could never be realised if she allowed her heart to
govern her head, if she listened to the man beside
her.

She was so young, and independence seemed to
have been thrust upon her so suddenly that it left
her dazed and confused, unable to sort out right
from wrong, happiness from unhappiness.

Then she thought of Nelly Sweet, and pride rose
again.

Perhaps she had walked with Bill and listened
to his pleading as she was listening now; perhaps
it was true, as Nelly had said, that he could change
quickly from one allegiance to another.

She took refuge in an unworthy subterfuge.

“I don’t want to get married yet.”

“You mean that you don’t want to marry me?”
he said quickly.

“No—at least . . . . there is Nelly——”

His face darkened.

“And she has been talking to you. I might
have known she would. What has she told you?
I have a right to know.”

“She has not told me anything.”

He laughed scornfully.

“You expect me to believe that?”

She was angered by the contempt in his voice.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not. I don’t
care what you say or think.”

She contrasted his manner with Andrew Lincoln’s
irreproachable charm and courtesy; she was not
sufficiently versed in the ways of life to realise that
veneer only covers cheapness and unworthiness.

Bill Sargent controlled himself with an effort.

“We don’t want to quarrel,” he said, more
gently. “My only desire is to protect you and
keep you from harm.”

She cried out indignantly.

“Anyone would think I am a stupid baby.”

Bill checked a smile.

“Well, you are only a child,” he submitted.

She flushed. “I am not such a child but that I
can look after myself.”

His face hardened.

“You mean that you have no further use for
my friendship?”

She did not answer for a moment, then she broke
out impulsively:

“Why do you treat me as if I was quite
ignorant? Why are you so horrid about Mr.
Lincoln? I——”

He broke in ruthlessly.

“Lincoln is not the sort of man you should
know; I despise him. I don’t trust him——”

“He is a gentleman,” she flashed back.

“And I am not, you mean,” Bill said grimly.
“Very well, I am content with that, if otherwise
I have to share the honour with him. If you
persist in this friendship—acquaintance—whatever
you like to call it, you will be sorry, Linda . . . .
I beg of you——”

But she was thoroughly roused now; tired, ill,
and unhappy. Her nerves were almost at snapping
point.

“I never said you might call me by my Christian
name.”

Bill stood still. He did not look at her; he stared
down the road blindly for a moment, then he
laughed.

“It serves me right for allowing myself to be
whistled back once already. I blame myself. I
am the fool——”

She grew alarmed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I understand at last that I am no
longer welcome. I suppose I should thank you
for your candour.”

Her heart gave a throb of fear.

“You are trying to quarrel with me,” she accused
him.

Bill made no answer.

“I think I should like to go back to Miss
Dallow’s,” Linda said.

He turned without a word and walked beside
her.

It was rapidly growing dark; when she glanced
up timidly she could no longer see his face, but the
very dark outline of his tall figure looked stiff and
angry.

“I will not be ordered about by him,” she
thought. “How dare he treat me as if I were a
child.” And she thought of Andrew Lincoln
again. He treated her as if she were a grown
woman, and his equal.

Then Bill broke out with uncontrollable passion.

“Oh, my God, Linda, think what you are doing!
I know this man and you do not. Don’t think
I am blaming you, my dear. I love you for your
sweet innocence. But no good can come of such a
friendship. I know him, and if you let him do
this thing, you will be sorry for it as long as you
live. Why should he put up money to start you
in business? The idea is monstrous and absurd!
If he were an old friend or a relation it would be
different.”

“All friends have to be new before they can be
old,” Linda said with dignity.

He went on, ignoring her. “If the man respected
you or cared anything for you, he would never
make such a suggestion.”

Linda looked up at him with passionate eyes.
“He does respect me; he likes me very much.”

“Likes you!” Bill laughed roughly. “How
long will he like you, do you think, once you are in
his power? How long does he like anybody?
Ask Joan Astley . . . .”

“You’re jealous, that’s why you say such things,”
she accused him.

“Jealous!” Bill took off his hat, baring his
forehead to the cool night air. Yes, he was jealous,
so jealous that he saw the world red, and his heart
was filled with hatred.

And Linda went on blindly. “I like Mr.
Lincoln. He’s very kind, he’s a good friend to
me.”

Bill lost his temper; he said hot, passionate
things which made her shudder, and which for ever
afterwards he remembered with shame.

“Perhaps you think he will marry you,” he
stormed, beside himself with pain. “I tell you
he will not. He is not the sort of man to marry a
girl who allows him to make a friend of her after a
casual meeting at a dance. I daresay when he is
amongst his friends, he laughs at you and tells
them what an easy conquest you were. That’s
the kind of man he is! A low, contemptible——”

He broke off, choking, and there was a tragic
silence, then Linda said very quietly.

“If you’ve finished, I think I will say good-night.”

They both stood still looking at one another by
the light of a street lamp overhead. Bill’s face was
so distorted with passion that she could hardly
recognise it.

“If it’s good-night, it’s good-bye too,” he said
with set teeth.

“Yes, I think it had better be good-bye,” Linda
agreed in a cool, little voice.

She waited a moment, but he said no more, and
with a slight inclination of her head, she turned
away and left him.

Chapter XII

Why was it that Bill Sargent angered her so
easily and made her say so many things which
she always repented as soon as she had left
him?

She got some supper for herself and sat down
to eat it, but she had no appetite, and she put it
away again and went to bed.

In the morning Miss Dallow came to her sitting-room
before she left the house.

“I should like to speak to you a moment, if you
please,” she said in her prim way.

Linda turned round.

“Yes, what is it?” she asked, surprised.

Miss Dallow folded her hands together and stood
stiffly, looking like an old-fashioned illustration in
a magazine of fifty years ago.

“I should be glad if you can tell me how soon
it will be convenient for you to vacate these rooms,”
she said.

Linda flushed scarlet.

“But . . . but you said I could stay until I
had made other arrangements,” she faltered.

Miss Dallow ignored the reminder of what she
had said in the first flush of her sympathy following
Mrs. Lovelace’s death.

“I have had an excellent offer to take the rooms,”
she said, “and I cannot afford to ignore it. You
told me that you would be leaving very shortly,
so possibly it will not inconvenience you to hurry
on your arrangements a little.”

Linda looked at her in helpless silence. Where
could she go? What could she do?

She thought of Mr. Stern, but dismissed him
from her mind: he would counsel her as he had
done once already—to go back to her mother,
and that she would never do.

She thought of Bill, but Bill had done with
her, and there was nobody else in the world to
whom she could turn for help, except the Black
Prince, and the memory of his kindness and
courtesy sent a thrill of warmth to her cold
heart.

“I will make arrangements to go at the end of
next week, if that will suit you,” she said with an
effort.

Miss Dallow turned to the door.

“That will suit me very well,” she answered,
and went away.

Linda wrote a hurried note to Lincoln, asking
when she could see him.

He would not fail her she was sure; he was a
friend upon whom she could always rely; she felt
comforted when she had safely posted it, and she
went to business with renewed courage.

Miss Gillet was away ill, and Mr. Flynn told her
that for the day she would be in sole charge of the
ribbons and laces.

“We are reposing a great trust in you,” he said.
“You must remember what a short time you have
been here. I hope you will do your best.”

Linda promised eagerly; she was very anxious
to show the firm what she could do, but thoughts
of Lincoln and his promises kept creeping in, and
she saw the future in roseate colours.

During the afternoon the Countess of Star
came into the department. She was alone, and
as she sat down at the counter she lifted her
lorgnette and stared hard at Linda for a moment
before she stated her requirements; then she said
irrelevantly:

“You look very young! Where is the young
lady who usually attends to me?”

Linda explained. “Miss Gillet is away ill. I
think she will be here to-morrow.”

The Countess said “Ah!” and she continued
to stare at Linda all the time.

“If there is anything I can show you, madam——”
Linda said nervously.

She kept remembering that this handsome old
lady was Andrew Lincoln’s aunt. She wondered
if by any possible chance she could know of her
friendship with her nephew.

“You can show me some black velvet ribbon,”
the Countess said at last. “The best quality. I
hate inferior articles.”

When she had chosen what she wanted, and
Linda was making out the bill, the old lady asked
again—

“How old are you?”

Linda told her rather shyly.

She half expected some complimentary remark
about her efficiency, but instead all she got
was—

“Humpn, I was in the schoolroom when I was
your age.”

Linda made no reply, and Mr. Flynn, the shop-walker,
came up, bowing and urbane.

“I hope everything is entirely satisfactory,
your ladyship.”

The old lady glanced at him with her shrewd
eyes.

“I was telling this young lady that when I was
her age I was in the schoolroom,” was the only
answer she vouchsafed.

Flynn walked away, looking rather crestfallen,
and the Countess said again to Linda: “How do
they treat you here? Well, I hope.”

“Very well, thank you, Madam,” Linda said
shyly.

The Countess said “Humph! I suppose you
would feel obliged to say that anyway, but I
happen to know Robert Lorne very well, and
I am sure that he is a man who would treat his
staff justly.”

“He is very kind,” Linda said.

She handed the old lady her change, which was
carefully counted through.

“Humph, well, I’ll wish you good-afternoon.”

Linda looked after her with amused interest.
She wondered what Lincoln thought of his aunt,
and how they got on together. She wondered
when he would answer her note, and how soon she
would see him.

She had not long to wait for there was a letter
for her when she got back to Miss Dallow’s.

It was written differently to any letter Linda
had ever received, and she thought it charming:

“I have just found your dear little note—”
That is how Andrew Lincoln began. “Unfortunately,
I have to go out to-night, but I have rung
up Mrs. Johnson—you will remember I spoke to
you about her in connection with our project—and
she will be delighted to lunch with us to-morrow
if you can arrange to meet me. I know
you are free at one o’clock on Saturday, so shall
we say two? I will call at your rooms for
you.

Yours ever.”

Linda’s spirits went up like rockets; she had
been sure he would not fail her; she sat down at
once to reply; she wished she had some expensive
note-paper like that on which he had written
to her; she took a long time to pen the few careful
lines:

“Dear Mr. Lincoln,—

“Thank you for your letter. I shall be very
pleased to lunch with you and Mrs. Johnson
to-morrow, and will be ready at two o’clock as
you suggest.

“Yours sincerely,

“Linda Lovelace.”

She addressed it to his rooms, stamped it, and
went downstairs to the post.

It was like the first step to fame and fortune as
she dropped it into the pillar-box; she walked back
feeling as if she trod on air, and met Bill Sargent
at Miss Dallow’s gate.

Her heart gave a great throb, then seemed to
stand still.

Would he speak to her? For a moment she
felt as if she were choking, but Bill only raised his
hat formally as if she had been the most
casual acquaintance, and, without a smile, passed
on.

Linda went into the house feeling a little sick.

All her joy and excitement had faded; an uplifting
shadow seemed to have fallen on the face
of the world.

The lunch in Andrew Lincoln’s flat with Linda
and Mrs. Johnson was, from Linda’s point of view
at least, a great success.

Mrs. Johnson was different to any woman she
had ever met before. She was tall and beautifully
dressed, with dark eyes which, to Linda’s ignorance,
seemed to know everything, and she was
kindness itself to the girl.

“So you’re the little lady I’ve heard so much
about?” was her first greeting. She took Linda’s
hand, looked hard at her for a moment, then, stooping,
kissed her in friendly fashion.

“I need not say how delighted I am to meet
you,” she said.

Linda thanked her shyly; her heart was fluttering
with excitement; this was the first step to
fame, and everything she had ever longed for;
this was the beginning of her attainment to her
great ambition.

At lunch she was treated as a guest of honour.
There was a large bunch of scented violets lying
beside her plate, and for a moment a little sick
remembrance went through her as she thought of
that day with Bill down at Chorley Wood, and
the wild sweet freshness of the open country—

“Mine be a cot beside the hill——”

Just for an instant the handsomely furnished
room seemed to stifle her; she longed to throw
wide the windows, or to get up and run away from
it all, but with an effort she controlled herself, and
smiled a reply into Andrew Lincoln’s eyes as he
toasted her health and success.

“Here’s to you, and here’s to me—

And here’s to everything that will be!”

he said, then laughed. “How’s that for an
original toast on the spur of the moment?” he
asked.

“You really are incorrigible, Andrew,” Mrs.
Johnson murmured.

Nobody had asked Linda to drink wine; Lincoln’s
man Gran served her with an iced lemon
squash.

Linda thought it was delightful of them to have
remembered; she sat there with flushed cheeks
and sparkling eyes while the other two talked
what they were pleased to call business, and said
that she need not worry her head about anything.

“Mrs. Johnson will see to it all for you,” the
Black Prince said in his easy way. “All you
have to do is to wear pretty frocks and look
charming, and be charming to clients.” He
laughed. “Not a very arduous task, is it?”

Linda said she was not sure.

“But when—how——” she stammered.

He told her that he was already negotiating with
the owner of a small business just off Maddox
Street.

“It will all be settled quite soon,” he declared.
“So you can send in your resignation to Bobbie
Lorne as soon as you like.”

“But—but if it doesn’t get settled?” Linda
asked, anxiously.

Mrs. Johnson answered that anything Andrew
undertook was always a success. “You are a
very lucky little lady,” she added.

Linda thought of Miss Dallow.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, looking at the
Black Prince, and flushing nervously, “but I have
got to leave my rooms. They don’t seem to want
me there now—now—there’s only me! The
rooms are let, and I have to leave at the end of
next week.”

“What could be better?” Lincoln said enthusiastically.
“We must hurry things on so that
you can move in right away. Oh, I forgot to
tell you, there is a small flat over the shop—quite
a small one, of course—a sitting-room,
kitchen, two bed-rooms. But you will be comfortable
there.”

Linda gasped.

“I am to live there?—alone?”

He looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Well, you will have a maid, of course.”

Linda’s face changed.

“I am sorry, but I could not possibly afford
anything like that,” she said decidedly. “I
haven’t any money except just a little from my
grandmother, and Mr. Stern would not approve,
I am sure.”

“And who is Stern?” Lincoln asked.

“He is our lawyer; he has always managed our
affairs.”

“And have you told him about this?”

Linda shook her head.

“No. You see”—her colour rose beneath his
dark eyes—“you see, I did not think he would
care about it for me. He thinks I ought to go
back and live with my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes. My mother has married again, and she
found out that I am in Lorne’s and she does
not like it. She wants me to go to live with
her.”

Mrs. Johnson looked interested.

“Where does she live, dear?”

Linda told her.

“Her name is Mrs. Goring-Wells now,” she added.

“Goring-Wells? What, not the financier?”
Lincoln asked sharply.

Linda hesitated. “I am not sure,” she said
doubtfully. “I believe that’s what he is though.
She told me, but I’ve forgotten. And anyway,”
she added determinedly, “I am not going to live
with her, whatever anyone says.”

There was a little silence, then she asked
interestedly:

“Do you know Mr. Goring-Wells, Mr. Lincoln?”

He laughed shortly. “I know of him.”

She leaned a little towards him.

“Please tell me what he is like.”

Andrew raised his brows.

“What he is like? Well, he is a keen business
man, but not a man I care for. Not a man you
would care for either, I should say.”

“I am sure I should not.”

“This is a young lady who knows her own mind,”
Mrs. Johnson said, smilingly.

Andrew drew up an arm-chair. “Come and sit
here, and ask me any questions you like. I promise
to answer them all.”

Linda obeyed silently, and he stood opposite
her, leaning his shoulders against the mantelshelf.

“Now then, number one!” he said, cheerily.

Linda hesitated, her hands clasping one another
nervously.

“Please—I hope you won’t mind,” she faltered,
“but do I get paid?”

“Paid!” He threw back his handsome head
and laughed. “Why, you silly child, of course
you get paid! A handsome salary, too! Not a
paltry pound, or whatever they hand out to you at
Lorne’s. What do you say to three pounds a
week for a start, and everything found?”

Linda stared at him, her lips parted, her eyes
wide.

“Three pounds!” she gasped.

“That is what I said.”

“Three pounds!” she faltered again; she could
not believe she had heard aright. “And everything
found!”

He smiled in amusement.

“I believe that is what I said. Why do you
stare at me like that? Isn’t it enough?”

“Enough!” Linda stood up and caught his
hand in both hers. “Oh, I think you are the best
and kindest man that ever lived,” she said.

The Black Prince blushed scarlet. He drew his
hand sharply away and made no answer.

Chapter XIII

Linda gave in her notice at Lorne and Dodwell’s
on the following Monday.

She had spent a wonderful week-end and her
head was turned with excitement and thoughts
of the future.

On Sunday Lincoln took her and Mrs. Johnson
out for the day in his car.

They drove down to Maidenhead, and had lunch
at Skindles Hotel, sitting out on the lawns afterwards
to drink their coffee. Linda had never
been there before; she had not guessed there were
such attractive places in the world.

There was a band playing all the time, and there
were so many pretty girls about that she felt as if
she were moving in a scene from a play, and not in
real life at all.

Mrs. Johnson looked rather bored; she sat back
in a low chair, smoking endless cigarettes, and
sipping something that looked very sweet and
golden from a tall thin glass.

She said she had been to Skindles hundreds of
times; she and the Black Prince exchanged amused
glances at Linda’s open excitement.

“What it is to be young and full of enthusiasm!”
Mrs. Johnson sighed.

It was warm and sunny for early spring, so they
stayed on all the afternoon.

“We might as well have tea here, don’t you
think?” Lincoln asked about four o’clock. He
looked at Linda. “Are you in a hurry to go back,
little lady?”

In a hurry! Linda could have stayed there for
ever, and said so with a fervent breath.

He ordered tea to be brought to them on the
lawn. The fine afternoon had tempted many
people on to the river. Someone in a passing punt
had got a gramophone on board, and the sound of
a popular waltz tune was wafted across the water.

Linda listened and felt herself in fairyland.

“Fancy being able to come here every day if
you wanted to,” she said breathlessly.

Mrs. Johnson raised her brows.

“You would soon get tired of it,” she answered.

“Never! Never!” Linda declared.

They stayed on to dinner as well.

“We may as well finish the day here while we
are about it,” the Black Prince said lightly.
“If we go back to town, there’s nothing to do, and
one can breathe here.”

He persuaded Linda to have just half a glass of
champagne with her dinner, “Just to please me!”
he urged.

Linda looked doubtfully at the bubbling wine.
“I’ve never tasted it in my life,” she said.

“Everything must have a beginning,” he told
her; “and I am sure you will like it! Just a sip.”

In the end she had half a glass.

“Like it?” he asked, as she made a little grimace.

Linda was not sure. “I’ve never tasted anything
like it,” she said.

“There is nothing like it,” he assured her.

People were dancing in an attractive ballroom
which led out of the dining-room. The windows
were all wide open to the gardens and the river
beyond, and the garden was hung with fairy lights
and Chinese lanterns. Little boats passing on the
river through the gathering dusk were hung with
lanterns too, and the click of rowlocks and the
sound of merry voices stole musically through the
evening.

Halfway through the dinner Lincoln asked Linda
if she would dance with him.

She flushed nervously.

“Dance here! Amongst all those people! Oh,
I couldn’t!”

“Why not? It’s not the first time you and I
have danced together.”

“I know, but——” She hesitated, looking down
at her black frock.

“To please me,” he urged softly.

Well, to please him! He had been so kind
to her, so more than good and wonderful; to please
him she felt that she would do a great deal.

He took her hand and they went to the ballroom
together.

After the first few moments all Linda’s shyness
and awkwardness vanished. The music seemed
to force her to dance against her will; it seemed
to take her body in its wonderful rhythm, and
bend her to and fro in perfect time and control.

“Oh, it’s lovely! Lovely!” she said, when
they came back to Mrs. Johnson, who had remained
at the table watching them.

“We’ll have another directly,” Andrew Lincoln
said. He refilled her glass with champagne, and
being thirsty and excited, Linda drank it off without
realising it.

When dinner was over they danced again.

“I could go on for ever,” she told him when he
asked if she was tired. “I don’t believe I shall
ever be tired again.”

When the music stopped they went out into the
garden.

The Black Prince kept her hand in his, and they
stood together looking at the river, and the coloured
lanterns on the boats, moving here and there like
will-o’-the-wisps in the darkness.

“Oh, I should love to,” she answered eagerly.
“But isn’t it rather dull for Mrs. Johnson?”

He laughed.

“We’ll leave her at home next time,” he said.

He drew Linda closer to him, slipping his hand
through her arm. “Happy?” he asked.

“I’ve never been so happy before,” Linda said,
then stopped with a sense of dismay.

She had thought the same thing when Bill took
her down to Chorley Wood that Sunday.

They had gone in a third-class carriage from
Baker Street, and had had tea at a little wayside
inn, and the whole day had probably not cost more
than a few shillings, whereas to-day . . . she
could not imagine how much money this wonderful
day would cost Andrew Lincoln.

“Mine be a cot beside the hill . . . .”

It was unkind of memory to flash back those
words to her; she shivered, and the man beside
her asked at once:—

“Are you cold? Shall we go in?”

“I’m not tired, but my head aches a little.”
She laughed rather self-consciously. “You know,
I believe it is the champagne.”

“Nonsense!” He would not admit that.
“Champagne bucks you up and makes you feel
young and ready to jump over the moon. But if
your head aches, we’ll go home.”

She agreed at once.

“Yes, let us go home.”

But he detained her yet a moment.

“Linda—if you have had a happy day, may I
not have a little reward?”

She looked up at him.

“Reward? What do you mean?”

“If you will . . . .” he broke off. “But I
suppose you will not,” he added.

“I don’t understand.”

He laughed, and released her.

“I was going to ask if I might kiss you, but on
second thoughts I will not,” the Black Prince said.
“Let us find Mrs. Johnson, shall we?”

It was clever of him to move away at once, clever
not to urge his wish a second time.

Linda followed, half frightened, half happy.

He must care a great deal for her if he wished
to kiss her, she thought in a turmoil; she hardly
knew whether she was glad or sorry.

So she gave in her notice at Lorne and Dodwell’s
on Monday morning. She woke with a headache
and an unusual sense of weariness to find that she
had overslept herself.

She had to dress hurriedly and go off to business
without any breakfast; so she felt out of sorts and
not too happy when she arrived.

Miss Gillet was not in a very good temper either,
and when Linda timidly asked her how she set
about giving in her notice, she rounded on her
sharply.

“Giving notice! You mean to say you are
leaving us?”

Linda flushed uncomfortably.

“Yes—at least—yes, I am,” she said desperately.

Miss Gillet’s lips tightened ominously.

“You will not find it so easy to get another
berth,” she said in her frigid way.

“I don’t want another berth,” Linda said
proudly.

Miss Gillet stared.

“Has somebody left you a fortune?” she demanded
icily. “Or are you going to get married?”

Linda checked a smile; they would all be amazed
when they knew what she was going to do, but
as yet she had no intention of giving her secret
away.

“You had better speak to Mr. Flynn,” Miss
Gillet said formally.

Linda spoke to him on her way to lunch.

“I wish to give in my notice,” she said nervously.
“Miss Gillet said you would tell me what to do.”

Mr. Flynn looked at her and raised his brows.

“I hope there is nothing wrong, Miss Lovelace.
I am sure that Mr. Robert would be very sorry if
he thought you were unhappy with us.”

Linda shook her head.

“I’m not unhappy at all, and there isn’t anything
wrong,” she answered. “I just want to
leave, that’s all.”

“I will speak to Mr. Robert,” he promised.
“He may like to see you himself.”

Mr. Flynn knew, as nearly everyone in Lorne
and Dodwell’s knew, that Linda was suspected of
being a protegée of Robert Lorne’s.

Linda went in to lunch with a fluttering heart.
She hoped that Miss Gillet had not spread the news
that she was leaving, but apparently Miss Gillet
had, for instead of avoiding her as she had done
lately, Nelly Sweet came quickly up to her as
she entered the dining-room.

“Is it true you are leaving here?” she demanded
in her sharp way.

“Quite true.”

Nelly caught her wrist in trembling fingers.

“Linda, are you going to marry my Bill?”

Linda flushed scarlet, and tried in vain to free
herself.

“Of course not. How can you ask me such a
silly question,” she said impatiently, but her heart
gave a quick leap.

To marry Bill! Well, she could have had him if
she had chosen; he had asked her.

“I love you. I want you to marry me.” Those
had been his words.

Nelly released her with a long breath of relief.

“Phew! You gave me a fright,” she said frankly.
“Well, what on earth are you going to do then?”
she demanded with a touch of her old friendliness.

“I don’t know yet,” Linda said, turning her
head away. She did not see why she should make
a confidante of Nelly after all that had passed
between them.

But Nelly’s natural kindness of heart asserted
itself now she thought Linda was in trouble.

“I say, they haven’t given you the push, have
they?” she asked sympathetically.

Linda smiled then.

“Oh no!”

“And you’re not going because of anything—well,
anything to do with me? I know I was
rather a pig, but—but you did try and get Bill
away from me,” she added.

“It isn’t anything at all to do with you,” Linda
said.

She went to her seat at the table and tried to
eat, but she was too excited.

Opposite, Nelly Sweet and another girl talked
in whispers, and from the end of the table Joan
Astley stared at her with cold, haughty eyes.

What would they all say if they knew the truth?
Linda wondered. What would they say if she told
them where she had been yesterday?

It already seemed like a dream that had never
happened. The ride down to Maidenhead through
the sunshine in Lincoln’s big Daimler, and the ride
back through the cool, fresh night air.

He would take her again, many times, so he
had said; he had held her hand longer than was
quite necessary when he said good-night to her
outside Miss Dallow’s.

Oh, life was beautiful after all! There was
still much happiness to be had, even though a sweet
old lady who had loved and cared for her lay asleep
in an ugly London cemetery, and Bill was angry
with her.

She wished she could forget Bill, but his was
not a personality easily forgotten. She wished
she could keep him as a friend, and go her own way
at the same time, but that, too, she knew to be
impossible. Bill hated Andrew Lincoln—it was
very unjust of Bill.

“Aren’t you hungry?” asked a girl beside her.
“Aren’t you well?”

Linda roused herself with an effort and smiled.

“I ought to be hungry,” she admitted. “I
overslept myself this morning, and had no
breakfast.”

“Late last night?” the other girl asked with a
little meaning smile.

“No, not very.”

Linda knew that every one at the table was
listening; for a moment it trembled on her tongue
to tell them all where she had been, but she checked
the impulse. She was unpopular with many of
the girls now, she knew, thanks to Nelly Sweet
and Joan Astley; what was the use of making
things any worse?

When she got back to the lace and ribbon counter
Miss Gillet said tartly:—

“You are to go to Mr. Robert Lorne in his office.”

“Oh!”

Linda caught her breath; she was always a little
afraid of Mr. Robert. “What does he want me
for?” she asked timidly.

Miss Gillet tossed her head.

“To ask you to reconsider your determination
to leave, I should imagine,” she said with
sarcasm.

Linda made no answer, but she gave an anxious
look at herself in one of the big mirrors behind
the counter before she made her way to the
office, where she had been given her first step to
success.

There was a feeling of fatalism in her heart as
she hesitated outside the door with its frosted glass
panels and two names painted below them.

“Mr. Samuel Lorne.”

“Mr. Robert Lorne.”

Somehow it no longer seemed such a wonderful
or magic spot as it had done the last time she stood
here, and with renewed courage she lifted her hand
and knocked.

“Come in.”

Mr. Robert was there alone, to Linda’s great
relief; she felt she could not have faced his uncle’s
sharp eyes.

She shut the door behind her and took a nervous
step forward.

Robert Lorne rose and drew forward a chair.

“Good-morning. Won’t you sit down?”

Linda obeyed silently, the colour coming and
going in her cheeks; she felt it was going to be
difficult to explain to this man why she had so
suddenly made up her mind to leave, when at one
time it had been the height of her ambition to procure
a berth in his firm.

There was a little silence, then he said kindly:—

“Well, now tell me what it’s all about? Why
have you so soon grown tired of your ribbons and
laces?”

For some reason which she could not explain,
the tears rose in Linda’s eyes at the kindly raillery
in Robert Lorne’s voice, and she faltered out:
“It isn’t all about anything! I’ve been quite
happy here, and I thank you very much for having
me, but——”

He smiled involuntarily, she was so like a little
girl nervously thanking her host for an enjoyable
party, and not at all like the independent young
woman of whom he had been told by Miss Gillet
half an hour since.

Miss Gillet had expressed the opinion that Linda
was suffering from a swelled head.

“She thinks she is too good for us, that’s what
it is,” so she had said. “I suppose she has come
into some money from her grandmother, or something
like that, or else she has had her silly little
head turned by the attentions of some man who
has no serious attentions at all.”

It was Miss Gillet who had made Lorne decide
to see Linda for himself. He was interested in
the welfare of all his staff, but Linda had interested
him especially from the first moment of their
meeting in the rain. He had recognised then
that she was different from any other girl in his
employ, and he acknowledged it again now as she
looked at him with the tears in her eyes and her lips
quivering.

“You are tired of work, is that it?” he asked,
“or perhaps there is no longer the need for you to
work?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, indeed it’s nothing
like that. It’s—oh, Mr. Lorne, I’m afraid you’ll
laugh at me if I tell you the truth.”

He leaned a little closer to her across the table.

“You are going to be married, is that it? Well,
I think you are a little young, perhaps, but it’s
what we all hope to do some day, I suppose. I
only hope you have made a wise choice. Is it
anyone in the firm—anyone I know?”

“Oh, no, no!” Linda was crimson with distress.
“I’m not going to be married, I’ve never
thought of such a thing,” she protested. “It’s
not anything to do with a man at all; it’s——” She
hesitated, then took the plunge: “I’m going to
start in business on my own account.”

There was an eloquent silence; Robert Lorne
did not smile, though for a moment the corners of
his mouth quivered suspiciously.

“What sort of a business, Miss Lovelace?” he
asked very quietly.

Linda took heart. He was apparently not
amused; he was not going to laugh at her and
ridicule the scheme.

“It’s a little millinery and frock shop—at least,
I think so. There are lots of them about, aren’t
there? and all you want is a little capital to start
with, and then influence——”

She was echoing Andrew Lincoln’s words.

“And have you—pardon me!—but have you
the necessary capital and influence?” Robert
Lorne asked gently.

Linda shook her head.

“I haven’t; of course I haven’t; but my friend——”

He sat back in his chair, a queer flash of understanding
crossing his face.

“Ah, I see! You have a friend helping you?”

“Yes,” she went on eagerly. “Of course I
don’t know anything about business, and I could
not start alone; but there is a lady who is going to
help me—she was a buyer for one of the big West-end
firms. I don’t know which one but that is
what she was.”

Again she was merely repeating in parrot-like
fashion the explanation given to her by the Black
Prince, and she went on glibly:

“We’re going to call it ‘Marie’—it’s going to be
painted over the door in gold letters. I haven’t
seen the shop yet, but it’s in a little turning off
Maddox Street. We’re buying the business, you
see—at least, my friend is. And there’s a little
flat over the shop, and I am going to live there——”
She broke off, realising his gravity.

“Oh, don’t you think I ought to do it?” she
asked impulsively.

Robert Lorne rose to his feet; he paced the
length of the room twice before he answered, then
he came back and stood beside her, looking down
at her with kindly eyes beneath their shaggy brows.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

She told him at once. “Nearly eighteen,” and
then, as he did not speak, “but I can make myself
look older,” she added eagerly. “I can do my
hair differently, and clothes alter one, don’t they?”

He ignored the appeal, and after a moment he
said, “Miss Lovelace, forgive me, but do you think
if your grandmother was alive, and could know of
this—this venture, that she would approve?”

Linda stared at him helplessly, the tears welling
to her eyes, and he went on urgently.

“It is no business of mine, I admit, but you are
so young, and you have told me yourself that you
are in a very lonely position. I have a sister myself
who is just about your age, and I should not
like to know that she was contemplating doing a
thing like this without someone to help and advise
her, and see that she came to no harm. I do not
know who your friend is, of course——”

Linda broke in eagerly.

“He’s the best and kindest man in the world;
nobody has ever been so kind to me as he has.”

She made her defence of the Black Prince with
enthusiasm, and yet she felt herself colouring
beneath the steady eyes of Robert Lorne, and he
said abruptly:—

“Miss Lovelace, may I speak to you frankly—very
frankly?”

She nodded dumbly, and he drew up his chair
again, and sat down beside her as if they were
friends, great friends who understood and trusted
one another, and not in the least as if he was the
great Robert Lorne, head of a wealthy firm, and
she one of many obscure little girls who worked
for him.

“I know much better than you do, much better
than I hope you ever will know, how many temptations
and dangers there are in the world for a girl
who finds herself in your friendless position,” he
began earnestly. “You told me yourself that
you and your mother are estranged, and I know
you have just lost someone who was very dear to
you, and who would, I am sure, were she alive, be
saying to you just what I am trying to say now.
I could see, the first time I ever spoke to you, that
you were not quite like the modern girl. You are
not quite so worldly-wise, Miss Lovelace—you are
too unsuspecting and innocent. And that is why
I am going to ask you to look upon me just for the
moment as a friend—a brother, if you like! and
tell me the name of this man who . . . this man
who is starting you in this . . . this business.”

Unconsciously there was a note of contempt in
his last words, and Linda’s colour rose indignantly.

Was he, after all, amused at her? Was he,
like everyone else, antagonistic towards her, in
spite of his kind words?

Instead of answering his question she rose to her
feet and began angrily to defend herself.

“I thought you would understand. I didn’t
think you would laugh at me. Anyone would
think I was a child, and not able to take care of
myself. . . . You’re not the only one who thinks
so, or pretends to think so. Why should I tell you
who is helping me? He’s a kind friend, anyway.
He knows I can work and make a success. . . .”
She stopped with a little breath of dismay at her
own daring, realising to whom she was speaking.
“Oh, Mr. Lorne, I’m so sorry—so sorry!” she
said in a frightened whisper.

There was a little silence, then Robert Lorne
rose also; his face was a little stern, the kindliness
of his eyes had changed to coldness.

“You know your own business best I am sure,
Miss Lovelace,” he said in an impartial voice. “I
wish you every success in the new venture. You
will leave us a week to-day then.” He bent over
a paper on his desk and made a note, then he passed
her and opened the door.

“I need detain you no longer,” he said formally,
and the next moment Linda found herself outside
again and the door shut.

She found her way back to the shop feeling
dazed and frightened.

What had she done, what was she doing, that
everyone should turn against her like this?

She had quarrelled with Nelly Sweet, and she
had angered Miss Gillet, Miss Dallow had asked
her to leave, and Bill had done with her, and now
Robert Lorne. . . .

“I don’t care, I don’t care!” she told herself
defiantly. “It’s jealousy, that’s what it is. I’ll
show them what I can do. I’ll show them that
I’m not such a child after all.”

The last week at Lorne and Dodwell’s seemed to fly.

No sooner had one day begun than it had ended;
she seemed to have no time to think, no time to
realise what was happening.

She saw Andrew Lincoln nearly every day, and
Mrs. Johnson nearly as often.

They took her to the little shop over which the
new name of “Marie” had been painted in gold,
and they let her choose fresh curtains for the
windows and a soft grey carpet for the floor.

She was like a child with a new toy; the business
side of the venture she never considered at all.

She asked no questions as to capital or loss, or
profits; she only knew that she was being treated
like a queen, that the little doll’s house flat upstairs
was to be her own, and that she was to have some
new smart frocks.

Linda had much of her mother in her after all;
she went down and worshipped before pretty frocks
and hats and dainty surroundings almost as easily
as Mrs. Goring-Wells had done years ago.

She trusted Lincoln and Mrs. Johnson implicitly,
and so the days fled by.

Of Bill Sargent there was no sign, though she
knew that he was still in the house, for she heard
his step often overhead or on the stairs, and Jenny
sometimes spoke of him.

Once she informed Linda that she was sure he
must be ill. “He’s that bad-tempered. I hardly
know him, that I don’t,” she said, pausing in the
doorway for a moment’s gossip. “And so different
to what he used to be! Always a smile and a
cheery word.”

“People can’t always be the same,” Linda said,
but her heart sank.

Bill, dear Bill! She wished she could see him
just for a moment. She wished she could tell him
of all the wonderful things that were happening
to her.

The night before she was to leave Miss Dallow’s
she deliberately left the door of her sitting-room
open about the time she knew he was due to come
in, but he was either aware of it, and stayed out
on purpose, or else he must have crept quietly
upstairs when she was not listening, for she saw
nothing of him.

Did he know she was leaving? She was sure
he must do. Jenny would certainly have told
him.

Mrs. Goring-Wells wrote that she was ill in bed
with influenza.

“What are you doing, Linda, and why don’t
you come to see your mother? Some day you
may know what it is to be ill and lonely as I am
now, and to long for a little kindness.”

Linda thought she knew what it was already,
she destroyed the letter without answering it.

She felt sad at the thought of the coming change.
She rather dreaded leaving Miss Dallow’s, and the
rooms where for a little while she had been happy
with Mrs. Lovelace; she cried a great deal as she
packed their few possessions.

It was like closing a chapter of life and starting
on a new one which was quite unknown.

She cried when she said good-bye to Miss
Gillet.

“You’ve been ever so kind to me,” she said.
“I hope I shall see you again.”

The story of her new venture had of course
filtered through the entire shop, and everyone
knew now who’s influence was at work.

“You’re a little fool, that’s what you are, my
dear,” Miss Gillet said sharply as they shook
hands. “But I don’t wish you any harm. For
goodness sake keep your eyes open and take care
of yourself.”

Linda thought that was unnecessary advice;
Mrs. Johnson and Andrew Lincoln were both
taking care of her in the most wonderful way.

She hesitated about saying good-bye to Nelly
Sweet, but Nelly sought her out.

“Well, I suppose you won’t want to know me
any more now,” she said in her downright fashion.
“I suppose you’ll run a motor soon, while I still
pay a penny for a seat on a bus, eh?”

Linda looked distressed.

“I shan’t be any different,” she protested.
“Why should I be?”

Nelly opened her eyes wide.

“What! Not with the Black Prince!” she
scoffed.

The colour rose in Linda’s face.

“I’m not with him,” she said impatiently.
“Why does everyone say such silly things? We’re
only just friends.”

Nelly sneered. “Oh, yes, we know that!”
she answered briskly.

“We know that our dear, darling Andrew is an
angel without wings, looking after a poor orphan
child and all the rest of it!” Her manner changed
suddenly, and she stamped her foot.

“Oh, you make me tired!” she said impulsively.
“How you can be so taken in I don’t know!
Ask Joan what she thinks of the Black Prince!
I know you don’t think much of her, but she
wouldn’t touch him with a pair of kitchen tongs
now, and that’s the truth!”

“Because he wouldn’t let her, I suppose,” Linda
said childishly.

She turned to go, but Nelly followed.

“Here, let’s shake hands and be friends,” she
said with an effort. “I don’t bear you any ill-feeling
now you’ve let Bill go. I know you haven’t
been out with him again since I asked you not to.
You’re a sport.”

Linda was touched and surprised, she took the
offered hand gladly.

“And I do hope you’ll be happy,” she said
earnestly. “I do hope that Bill——” She suddenly
choked at mention of his name, and could
say no more.

Nelly laughed rather grimly.

“If you’ve done with Bill, he’s done with me,”
she said, unhappily. “I’m not good enough for
him now, and perhaps he’s right! Bless his old
heart, anyway!”

Linda was driven to ask a last question:—

“Do you—do you ever see him now?”

Nelly made a grimace.

“I’ve seen him once in the last fortnight and
that was by accident,” she said with a mock sigh.
“But I saw Archie Lang the other night, you
remember him? He was at that dance with us.
Well, he sees a lot of Bill, I think, and he told me
that Bill had asked for a shift.”

“A shift? You mean—he’s going to leave the
bank?”

Nelly nodded. “He’s going to leave the town
branch anyway; he hates London, you know, he’s
all for the country. I don’t blame him; there’s
something forced and unnatural about London
when you have to live the sort of life we do, isn’t
there? I always used to feel it when Bill took me
down to the country for the day. It is all the
difference between a greenhouse and an open field,
isn’t it?” She laughed rather self-consciously.
“Heavens! hark at me!” she jeered at herself.
“I ought to write a book.”

“I know what you mean,” Linda said slowly,
and remembered how she had felt something of
the same emotion which Nelly was trying to describe
that Sunday when she and Bill went down to
Chorley Wood.

What was the good of looking back? she asked
herself impatiently. The best and wisest thing
to do was to look on—on! Surely there must
be something more pleasant in the future than a
few hours in woods and fields walking with a man
who had done with her—who wished never to see
her again.

Mrs. Johnson was to call that evening and take
her and all her possessions away from Miss
Dallow’s, and Linda was ready waiting in her hat
and coat when she heard a step on the landing
outside.

Bill! Her heart seemed to leap to her mouth,
and she was across the room and at the open door
in a second.

It was Bill right enough, but he would have
passed her without a look or a word if she had not
spoken.

“Mr. Sargent . . . I’m leaving here to-day.”

He stood still. His eyes, hard and unfriendly,
met hers.

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh!”

There was a little silence. Linda felt as if she
was choking. She wanted to burst into tears; she
wanted to grip hold of him so that he could not go
on up those stairs and leave her; she wanted to
hold him fast. Wild, foolish things crowded to her
lips, but she kept them back.

She wanted to say, “Oh, Bill, don’t be angry
with me.” She wanted to say, “Oh, Bill, I’m
not really happy a bit! I’m really lonely and
frightened and miserable,” but pride prevented her.

Then Bill spoke:

“Well, I won’t detain you,” he said formally.
“I’ll say good-bye. I wish you every luck.”
And he was gone.

Chapter XIV

The first week in the new little shop went by
like a fairy story to Linda.

She had never dreamed that such things could
be; she had never realised that there was such
great kindness in the world as that which was shown
to her by the Black Prince and Mrs. Johnson.

Her slightest wish was gratified; she lived like
a princess in the little flat above the shop.

Mrs. Johnson had tactfully suggested a change
in her hairdressing, and guided her choice in
clothes.

Sometimes Linda looked at herself in the mirror,
and could not believe it was indeed she.

She had always worn her hair loosely dressed,
parted on one side, and gathered into a loose knot
at the back of her head.

Now she wore it brushed straight back, and
flattened over her ears. It made her look much
older and more interesting she knew, but often she
found herself wondering what Mrs. Lovelace would
say if she could see her.

There was no lack of customers at the little
shop.

Although Linda was unconscious of it, they
were all influenced either by Lincoln himself or Mrs.
Johnson. Often there was quite a string of motorcars
in the quiet little street, and Mrs. Johnson
laughingly said that they would either have to
take larger premises or enlarge.

She herself did all the business; Linda merely
walked about and smiled and made herself agreeable,
and tried on the latest blouses and jumpers
to show them off to prospective purchasers.

Once the Countess of Star came.

She stared at Linda through her lorgnette for a
long moment before she said in her downright way,

“I’ve seen you before somewhere?”

Linda flushed in embarrassment, whereupon the
old lady tapped her arm in friendly fashion and
said:

“Pooh! pooh! Nothing to blush about, though
I must say I like to see a modern girl who is still
capable of blushing.”

She bought a few articles and took them away
without paying.

“My secretary, Miss Fernie, will send you on a
cheque,” she said, as she left. “I never carry
money about with me. I always lose it.”

“I suppose she will send it, will she?”
Linda asked doubtfully when she had gone. She
had grown rather distrustful of the world in
general since she had been thrown on her own
initiative.

Mrs. Johnson looked annoyed.

“The Countess is a very rich woman,” she said.

“Oh, I know that,” Linda answered. “But it
isn’t always the rich people who pay their bills, is
it?”

“Did she? Then she knows that he is really
the owner of the business?”

“Of course. I’ve no doubt she lent him the
money,” said Mrs. Johnson calmly.

Linda felt perplexed.

“And does she know he did it for me?” she
asked innocently.

The elder woman stared at her and then smiled
rather acidly.

“There are some things which it is not wise
to tell to a wealthy aunt from whom one has
prospects,” she said.

Linda did not understand; she thought the
words over for a moment, then she said:—

“Oh, you mean she might not like it because
I’ve been in a shop before?” she asked.

Mrs. Johnson shrugged her shoulders.

“Never mind what I mean.”

But Linda did mind; the little conversation
had left her with a feeling of vague discomfort.
When Lincoln came to the little shop later in the
evening she asked him about it.

“Does the Countess of Star know that you put
money into this business for me?”

He looked slightly uncomfortable.

“She probably guesses,” he said at last.

Linda looked worried. “Is she angry with you
about it?” she urged.

“Angry!” he laughed. “My dear little girl,
my worthy aunt has long since ceased to be angry
or concern herself seriously with any escapade of
mine.” He drew up a chair and sat down. “We
are very good friends, but she does not approve of
me, and she knows that I don’t approve of her.
But I’m her only near relative, and she knows that
there is always one thing I shall never do without
her consent.”

“And what is that?” Linda inquired interestedly.

“Get married,” he answered.

“Oh!” She felt the colour mounting to her
cheeks beneath his gaze. “And supposing she
does not like the girl you wish to marry?” she
asked.

Andrew Lincoln laughed.

“I shall make it my business to see that
she does,” he said; he put out his hand and took
hers.

“Well, are you happy?”

“You know I am.”

There was nobody in the shop at the moment,
and Mrs. Johnson’s back was discreetly turned,
so he lifted Linda’s hand to his lips and kissed her
soft palm.

“Bless you!” he said.

She drew away from him, her heart beating fast.

She could not analyse her feelings with regard
to this man; she knew that she liked him, and that
she was proud of his friendship for her, but there
were times when he made her feel uncomfortable;
times when something in his manner and the way
in which he spoke made her feel as if she belonged
to him—as if he considered he had bought her
along with the business.

“But that’s absurd, of course,” she argued.
“He is only a good friend to me—and I ought to
be very grateful to him—I am!”

“And what about a little trip in the country
this evening?” Lincoln asked presently. “It
keeps light so late now; we should have time for a
spin.”

Linda began to say eagerly that she would love
it, then stopped.

“Oh, I can’t! I forgot! I’m so sorry, but I
promised to go to supper with Miss Gillet——”

He frowned. “Miss Gillet! Don’t know
her!”

“I was with her at Lorne’s,” Linda said. “She
was always very kind to me in her own way, and
I met her a few days ago, and she asked me to have
supper with her to-night.”

“You can put her off,” he said easily. “I
come first, surely?”

Linda looked distressed. “You do! Of course
you do; but I promised!”

He laughed. “Pooh! I promise a dozen
things a day which I have no intention of doing!”

She looked at him reproachfully.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that! I like to keep my
word. We can go some other night, can’t we?”

“I particularly want you to-night.”

She shook her head. “But I promised. I
can’t break my promise.”

He pleaded and argued with her in vain. A
promise was a promise, Linda said firmly. She
would hate anyone to break their word to her, and
she would stand by hers. Miss Gillet had been
very kind when Mrs. Lovelace was ill—she could
not forget that.

Andrew Lincoln took a dignified departure at
last without saying good-night, and Mrs. Johnson
looked at Linda reproachfully.

“You have offended him. You will not see him
again for some time,” she prophesied.

“Oh, but what nonsense, and how unfair!”
Linda protested, half amused, half frightened.
“How could I break my word.”

“You owe a great deal to Mr. Lincoln,” was all
that Mrs. Johnson would say.

“He is not really angry, I am sure he is not,”
Linda said after a moment. “Nobody could be
so foolish! He will come to-morrow and will have
forgotten it.”

But Mrs. Johnson was right, and it was nearly
a week before the Black Prince came to the little
shop again. It was with rather a heavy heart that
Linda went to Miss Gillet’s supper party.

She had understood that she was to be the only
guest, and that they were to spend a quiet evening
together, but when she arrived she found several
other people there, and amongst them two girls
from Lorne and Dodwell’s.

Neither of them had been friends of hers, but
they made her feel uncomfortable by the way in
which they stared at her, at her clothes, and
the style of her hair, and she wished she had not
come.

Archie Lang was there, too, and after the
first little awkwardness he was very kind and
friendly.

“By Jove, you’ve altered since I saw you,”
was his first friendly greeting. “You’ve gone up
in the world, eh?”

Linda flushed sensitively.

“I was very dowdy before, anyhow,” she
defended herself.

“Been to any dances with Lincoln?” he asked.

The question was spoken naturally enough,
and without any wish to be offensive, but Linda
winced.

Why was everyone so unkind about the Black
Prince? Why were they all so jealous of her good
fortune?

When she was taking off her hat in Miss Gillet’s
bedroom she spoke about it.

“Why does everyone ask me about Mr.
Lincoln?”

Miss Gillet turned round from the task of powdering
her nose and stared at Linda blankly.

“Well, isn’t it a natural thing to ask?”

“I don’t see why. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

Miss Gillet smiled rather acidly.

“Oh, well, if you feel uncomfortable about
him, you shouldn’t have done it, that’s all,” she
said.

“Done what?” Linda asked.

Miss Gillet shrugged her shoulders.

“I often wonder whether you’re as innocent as
you seem to be,” she said energetically.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Linda protested.

She felt as if a second cloud had fallen on her
happiness. She wished she had not come; she
was sure she was not going to enjoy the evening at
all; she was sure it was not worth while having
quarrelled with Lincoln about.

She was very silent during supper, and after a
few attempts to draw her into the conversation the
rest of the company rather let her alone.

She was just casting about in her mind for some
excuse which could take her away, when there was
a ring at the bell below, and a moment later Bill
Sargent was announced.

Linda felt herself growing white.

Had Miss Gillet done this on purpose? she wondered;
and then remembered that Miss Gillet had
not known of their friendship.

Bill looked very much the same as usual, and he
shook hands with her unconcernedly enough.

“This is a surprise,” he said calmly.

“It’s a surprise to me, too,” she answered with
an effort.

She wondered what he thought of her frock, and
the new way of dressing her hair: she felt more ill
at ease than ever now he had come.

He avoided her, and talked all the time to
one of the girls from Lorne’s. Linda found
herself straining her ears to listen to what he was
saying.

“Yes, I go next week. . . . Yes, right down
in the country. I was jolly lucky to get it. I’m
to live over the bank, too. Quite a small house,
of course, but there’s a garden, and I’m fond of a
garden.”

Linda found her voice with an effort.

“Are you going away?”

He glanced at her impersonally.

“Yes, they’ve moved me. I’ve been lucky:
I’ve got a branch managership down in Surrey.”

“Oh!”

“What will Nelly do without you?” Miss Gillet
asked maliciously.

The younger of the two girls from Lorne’s
answered for him.

“Nelly’s got a new young man; didn’t you
know?”

“I have not seen Miss Sweet for some time,”
Bill said casually.

Linda’s heart gave a little throb.

“Who—who is the new young man?” she asked
of the girl beside her.

“I don’t know, but she’s always about with him.
He’s got a small business of his own somewhere,
and a two-seater! Oh, she’s up in the world, is
our Nelly.”

There was no longer any thought in Linda’s mind
of leaving Miss Gillet’s early now Bill had come;
she sat and watched him, and listened to his voice
and his laugh with a real heartache.

Once when she found herself beside him for a
moment, she ventured to congratulate him on his
new berth, he looked at her with hard, disinterested
eyes.

“Yes, you and I have both been fortunate,” he
agreed. “You have realised your ambition, and
I have realised mine.”

“. . . . Mine be a cot beside the hill . . . .”

Linda tried in vain to close her ears to the haunting
words.

She could picture Bill so well down there in the
country; she could see long summer evenings,
during which he would potter about in the garden
in his shirt-sleeves, smoking his pipe, whilst she——

It was strange that things which had seemed
yesterday to spell perfect happiness to-day were
no longer quite so wonderful.

“Around my ivy’d porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew.

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing

In russet gown and apron blue . . . .”

Some day, of course, there would be a Lucy!
Lucky, lucky girl, whoever she was.

Linda controlled herself with an effort. Everyone
in the room but herself seemed laughing
and happy, and yet she supposed that she was
better off and with better prospects than any of
them.

What was wrong with her? What was wrong
with life? What was it that she really wanted
to make her happy?

It was raining hard when the time came to go.

“Is Mr. Lincoln calling for you, dear?” one of
the girls from Lorne’s asked in a too-sweet voice,
audible to everyone present.

Linda flushed sensitively.

“Oh, no, of course not. Why should he?”

The girl laughed.

“I’d jolly well make him if I were you,” she said
emphatically. “You look after yourself; that’s
my advice.”

Linda looked puzzled.

“I do look after myself,” she protested.

Archie Lang chuckled.

“Trust Linda to know which side the bread
is buttered,” he said meaningly. “Even if the
butter is rank,” he added in an undertone, but
Linda heard and caught up the words furiously.

“I don’t know what you’re all insinuating,” she
said in deep distress. “If you are trying to insult
me——”

Miss Gillet caught her hand.

“Heavens! don’t be so silly,” she said in annoyance.
“Can’t you take a joke.”

Linda looked imploringly at Bill, but he had
turned away.

Bill Sargent and the two girls from Lorne’s, and
Linda all went the same way home, but Bill went
on in front with one of the girls, leaving Linda to
follow.

She had borrowed an umbrella from Miss Gillet,
but the pouring rain splashed up and drenched
her thin shoes and silk stockings, and there was an
unkind wind blowing that buffeted her first this
way and then that.

Bill looked in vain for a taxi-cab, and every
omnibus that passed was crowded.

“Sorry, but you’ll all have to walk,” he said, in
his cheery way. “It’s not far, take hold of my
arm, Miss Smith, then my umbrella will cover us
both.”

Miss Smith giggled and obeyed delightedly.

She was a plain girl, who had never had any
attention, and this was an event for her.

Linda watched them with jealous eyes.

She thought Bill might have helped her; after all,
they had once been good friends.

They passed the street corner where the other
two girls lived, and bade them good-night.

There was much laughing and joking before they
parted.

Bill had loaned them his umbrella, and had
promised to call for it the following day.

“Come to tea,” they invited him. “Tea and
shrimps, if you like shrimps.”

Bill said he adored them; he promised to turn
up at four o’clock (it was a Saturday) without
fail.

Miss Smith and her friend splashed off cheerfully
through the rain, calling back many good-nights,
and Linda was left to Bill.

“I’m afraid you’re rather wet,” he said politely.

Linda said she was quite dry, but her feet were
sodden, and her thin skirts flapped round her
uncomfortably.

They walked some little way in silence; and
then, against her will, Linda broke out impulsively—

“Don’t you think you are very unkind to
me?”

“Unkind!” He repeated the word and laughed.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She answered with trembling lips. “You mean
that you don’t choose to.”

She felt rather than saw that he shrugged his
shoulders.

“You gave me to understand that you wished
our friendship to definitely cease.”

His voice sounded like that of a stranger, and
there was a little lump in Linda’s throat that
almost choked her, but she managed to say faintly—

“And if I’m . . . sorry!”

For an instant he stood still, as if surprise checked
him, then he walked on again more rapidly than
before.

“Sorry . . . for what, Miss Lovelace?”

“For . . . for sending you away.”

“You are very kind.”

She was trembling in every limb; she wanted
to cry badly. Why was he so hard, so unforgiving?
Somehow she had imagined that at one word from
her he would have held out his arms.

She struggled on with the desperate feeling that
it must be now or never.

“Forgive you? Take you back?” his voice
was almost brutal in its harshness. “After everything
that has happened? . . .” He laughed
roughly. “Good heavens, what do you take me
for?”

“What do you mean? After everything that
has happened? I’m just the same as I always
was . . . and you said you loved me. . . .”

Bill stood still; they were close to a street lamp,
and in its wavering yellow light his face looked
drawn and almost ugly.

“Loved you! So I did! But now . . . I
only hope to God I shall never see you again. If I
had known you were to be at Miss Gillet’s to-night,
no power on earth would have dragged me there——”

He stood for a moment, breathing hard; then
without another word he turned and strode away
from her.

She cried out after him shrilly:

“Bill, oh Bill, come back!”

But he took no notice, and presently he was lost
to view.

“I hope to God I shall never see you again.”

The words had sounded like a curse, and there
was a panic of fear in Linda’s heart as she went
the rest of her way home.

Why had he said that? What had she done?
Nothing sufficiently bad to deserve such harshness
she was sure. What had he meant?

She had been unkind and ungrateful to him, but
nothing more.

She knew now that always at the back of her
mind had been the thought that whatever happened
there would always be Bill in the background;
faithful Bill, who would always love her and come
if she wanted him.

And now that thought had been killed. Bill
had done with her; the rock of his love had failed
her; there was no longer anyone to whom she
might turn.

Mrs. Johnson was waiting up for her when she
got home.

“Wet through!” she said aghast. “You’ve
ruined your frock and those expensive shoes. Why
on earth didn’t you take a cab?”

“I couldn’t find one.”

“Humph, well you’d better hurry up and
get to bed, or you won’t be fit for anything to-morrow.”

Linda went to bed and cried herself to sleep.

She passed a lonely week-end.

There was no sign of Lincoln, and Mrs. Johnson
was out every day with friends of her own.

On Sunday afternoon Linda could bear her own
company no longer, so putting her pride in her
pocket, she dressed and went to call at her mother’s
house.

She felt that she must talk to someone, or she
would go mad.

Lincoln had never neglected to take her out over
the week-end since the little shop was opened, and
she missed him, and felt piqued by the neglect.

Mrs. Johnson had not been very kind about it
either.

“Well, you wouldn’t put off your supper party
for him,” she said. “Why should he put himself
out for you? He has already done more for you
than any other man would have done, and so far
I can’t see what he’s got for his money,” she added
tartly.

“What does he expect to get?” Linda asked
with dignity. “I shall pay him back as soon as I
can.”

An enigmatical smile crossed Mrs. Johnson’s face.

“Ah, well, we shall see,” was all she said.

Linda thought of that smile as she made her way
to Mrs. Goring-Wells’ house; it had been so subtle
and full of meaning.

Miss Smith from Lorne’s had smiled in just the
same way, and Archie Lang! Without knowing
why she felt her face growing hot.

What was the matter with everyone? Why
were they all so jealous? She tried to dismiss
them from her mind.

At her mother’s house a fresh disappointment
awaited her, for Mrs. Goring-Wells had gone to the
South of France to recover from her recent
illness, and they did not know when she would be
returning.

“He is not back, then,” Mrs. Johnson said
calmly. “He went down to Brighton for the week-end,
and I had a note from him yesterday on some
business matter, in which he said he did not intend
to return before Saturday.”

“Oh!” Linda felt as if a cold hand had touched
her heart, and again she asked herself desolately
why it was that it seemed impossible for her to
keep a friend.

There was a little silence; then she said impulsively:

“Mrs. Johnson, why are people so horrid to me
about Mr. Lincoln?”

Mrs. Johnson looked at her in mild surprise.

“Horrid? Are people horrid? If they are,
it’s jealousy, I am sure, because you are so much
prettier and luckier than they are.”

Linda had never thought herself pretty, but now
she stole a shy glance at her reflection in one of the
show-case mirrors.

She had not yet grown used to her new clothes
and her changed hairdressing. She never felt
quite comfortable, and often longed for her old,
not very well made clothes.

But Andrew Lincoln had decreed that she
must alter her appearance, therefore she had
done so.

But Andrew was away, down at Brighton.

“Who is he at Brighton with?” she asked
abruptly.

Mrs. Johnson was busy folding crepe-de-chine
underskirts into a box, and answered rather
absently:

“He went with a party of friends, I believe.
He did not tell me who they were, and I am not
curious.”

But Linda was, and her heart swelled with a
faint jealousy, which increased later in the day,
when, going out to post some letters, she ran into
Nelly Sweet.

Nelly stood still with an unkind little gasp.

“Fine feathers make fine birds, don’t they?”
she said unkindly.

Linda coloured. “Don’t you like my clothes?”
she asked.

“Like ’em!” Nelly shrugged her shoulders.
“I should like ’em if they were mine,” she said
frankly. “But as it is . . . well!”

Linda would have gone on, but Nelly detained
her for a moment.

“Have you heard the news about Joan Astley?”
she asked.

Linda shook her head.

“No; what is it? Is she ill?”

“Ill!” Nelly grinned. “She’s left! Nobody
knows why; she went off in a great hurry—same
as you did——” she added in unkind
parentheses.

“Where has she gone?” Linda asked.

Nelly grinned.

“Ask Andrew Lincoln,” she said.

Linda’s cheeks were flaming as she turned away.
She was sure that Nelly was deliberately trying
to hurt her. As if Andrew knew! He had told
her that he and Joan were no longer friends.

She went back to the little shop, to find two
customers being waited on by Mrs. Johnson with
great attention.

When she entered Mrs. Johnson looked up with
her most artificial business smile.

“Here she is! We were just speaking of
you, Miss Lovelace. These ladies are friends of
Mr. Lincoln’s, and have most kindly come to
look at our pretty things.” She carefully spread
a cobwebby garment across a black velvet
cushion, touching its lace and ribbons with expert
fingers.

“This is our latest model. It only came from
Paris last week,” she said impressively. “We
can copy it in any colour from five and a half
guineas.”

Linda listened with the feeling of amused scorn
which she could never quite conquer. She knew
as well as Mrs. Johnson knew, that the “model”
in question had been made in poor lodgings not
very far away from the Hammersmith Road,
where she herself once lived, by a cripple girl,
who stitched her fingers to the bone to keep
herself in the necessities of life.

But the prospective customers seemed quite
satisfied with the explanation vouchsafed to them,
and gave elaborate orders to be executed immediately.

When they were gone, Mrs. Johnson’s suave
urbanity fell from her like a cloak.

“I shall have to write to Miss Mathews, and tell
her to start on the order at once,” she said briskly
to Linda. “It’s no use waiting for her to call.
Her leg was worse again last time she wrote. Such
a nuisance, having to employ a cripple.”

“Why do we employ her then?” Linda asked
rather sharply.

Mrs. Johnson stared.

“You know quite well why,” she said. “Because
she is cheaper than anyone else we know,
and her work is far better.”

Linda’s eyes grew passionately resentful.

“I think life is horrible,” she said with energy.

Mrs. Johnson laughed unkindly.

“I don’t quite see where your quarrel with
life comes in,” was her reply as she walked
into the little room behind the shop and began
her letter.

Linda folded up the dainty garments with which
the tiny counter was strewn, her thoughts far
away.

She was thinking of her childhood, of her grandmother,
and the old Odds and Ends box, and her
own dream of life in a shop.

“Ribbons and laces for sweet pretty faces—

Oh, come to the market and buy.”

The dream had been shorn of a great deal of its
romance during the last few months; she even
thought there was something rather tragic and
horrible in the fact that so much money was made
because of the vanity of women.

And yet she knew that her own sex were not
only to blame; it was to please men that they made
themselves look pretty and attractive, men who
paid them attention, and whom they liked; men
such as Andrew Lincoln!

Not men like Bill Sargent; dear Bill! in her
mind he was in a little niche apart. He would
not care how shabby were the clothes worn by
the woman he loved; Bill was not like Andrew
Lincoln, who judged most women by their frocks
and frills.

And her eyes grew sad as she thought of Bill,
and his rough unkindness to her.

What had she done to make him look at her
almost as if he hated her? What disgrace was
there in taking an opportunity when it was offered,
to help her nearer to a great success?

She had grown into a habit lately of turning
things over and over in her mind, in a vain
endeavour to find out why she was not more
happy and contented.

She had plenty of money; she was always well
dressed, and she was mistress of the little shop in
which she stood. Most girls would have been wild
with joy, and yet. . . .

The door opened sharply, and the postman
came in. He handed Linda a bundle of letters
which she sorted through indifferently until
she came to one addressed in her mother’s handwriting.

The envelope bore a French stamp and postmark,
and smelt faintly of some very expensive
scent.

Linda opened it without much enthusiasm, but
after she had read the first few lines her slim young
body stiffened and her face grew white.

Mrs. Goring-Wells had written:

“The story of your disgraceful conduct has
reached me, and I am sending this letter to tell
you that from this moment you are no longer my
daughter. Any communication from you will be
returned unopened. Please understand that this
is final.”

Linda stood staring at the curt missive with
horrified eyes.

Had her mother gone mad? Or had she?

Mrs. Johnson came bustling back into the shop,
an unfolded letter in her hand, which she held out
to Linda.

“You had better read this before it goes, and
sign it. I cannot see why Mr. Lincoln wishes all
letters to be signed by you, but as he does——”
she broke off. “Why, what is the matter?” she
asked in swift concern.

Linda tried to speak, but her voice seemed to
have failed. She silently gave her Mrs. Goring-Wells’
letter to read.

“I don’t know what it means,” she said
with stiff lips. “I think she must be mad.”

Mrs. Johnson read the strange communication
quickly and laid it down on the counter amongst
the silks and laces.

“Well!” she said expressively.

“But what can she mean?” Linda asked in
distress. “What have I done? What does she
mean by ‘disgraceful conduct’?”

“My dear child, if you don’t know yourself, how
can you expect me to tell you? You have always
told me that your mother is a very strange woman;
possibly that is the explanation.”

But she avoided Linda’s eyes.

Linda stood staring out into the street; there
was a vague fear in her heart.

“But it’s only a little while ago that she begged
me to give up work, and go and live with her,”
she broke out presently. “Nothing has happened
since then—except that I have come here? Why,
I went to her house on Sunday, but she was
away——”

“Well, I should not worry about it if I were
you,” Mrs. Johnson said briskly. “After all, you
can’t order your life to please everyone, can you?”

“It isn’t as if I care exactly,” Linda said with
quivering lips. “But . . . but mother isn’t the
first one to . . . to say that sort of thing to
me. There was . . .” she checked the name of
Bill Sargent that had risen to her lips. She could
not speak of him to Mrs. Johnson.

But there had been something of the same
feeling in Bill’s manner to her the other night, as
there was in this letter. It was almost . . .
disgust!

“Well, it’s no use worrying,” Mrs. Johnson
said again in her most matter-of-fact way.
“Gracious me, if I’d worried about everything
that has been said of me during the last thirty
years, I should have been in my coffin long enough
ago.”

“I shouldn’t care if I was to go into mine to-morrow,”
Linda said despondently.

Mrs. Johnson flung her a good-humoured smile.

“Silly child! Mr. Lincoln will be home soon,
and then we’ll see what he has to say.”

“It’s nothing to do with me what he says,”
Linda retorted proudly.

Andrew had failed her even as Bill had done;
it hurt her pride to remember Nelly Sweet’s
insinuation about Joan, even though she did
not believe it.

If only she could see him! If only he would
come! She was fond of the Black Prince in her
own way, but her chief emotion was gratitude.
He had done so much for her! More than anyone
else had ever done.

“But you wrote to his flat,” the elder woman
protested. “It would have to be sent on to him,
and all that takes time.”

The days dragged very much. Trade was not
good. The weather turned very hot, and Linda
drooped and pined for the country.

At night she would often dream of cool, shady
woods where bluebells and primroses grew; would
dream that she was walking there happily, with
someone she loved beside her; would dream
of the sound of a brook and the song of beautiful
birds, and wake to the rumble of the traffic
along Oxford Street, and the airlessness of her
bedroom.

Mrs. Johnson watched her rather anxiously.

“Aren’t you well?” she asked once. “You’re
getting so thin and pale, there’ll be nothing of you
soon.”

“I’m quite well,” Linda answered rather snappily.
“It’s only so hot.”

“A day in the country would do you good,”
Mrs. Johnson said. “Mr. Lincoln will have to
take you away when he comes back.”

“I don’t want to go to the country, and it doesn’t
look as if he is coming back,” Linda said, with a
mirthless little laugh.

She met Archie Lang in the park that evening.
Sheer longing for a breath of air had driven her
out, and she was walking listlessly along when a
voice beside her said:

“Hullo! A little maiden all forlorn and unattended.
What luck is mine,” and she looked up
into Archie’s face.

She had not felt very friendly towards him since
that supper party at Miss Gillet’s, and she greeted
him coldly.

“Not pleased to see me, eh?” he asked in his
cheerful fashion. “What have I done to annoy
you?”

She flushed. “You haven’t done anything. I
was only surprised to meet you.”

“Well, it’s the last time you’ll see me for some
years,” he promised. “I’m going out to India.
Fed up with the starvation wages they give a chap
in this country, so I’m off. Got a cousin in Rangoon,
and he’s found me a job.” He grinned down
at her. “So you might look a little more pleasant,
and come and have some tea.”

Linda relented. “I’m sorry you’re going so
far away.”

He looked sceptical.

“Oh, London is finished as far as I’m concerned,”
he said breezily. “All my pals are gone. Sargent’s
moved—but I suppose you know.”

Linda’s heart gave a quick throb.

“I knew he was going,” she said breathlessly.

“Well, he’s gone,” Archie told her. “We had
a farewell supper at Pagani’s before he went,
and I’m going to look for a job for him in India
when I get settled myself. He’s fed up with
England, too,” he added, so cheerily that it was
impossible to imagine he could ever be fed up with
anything.

“I always thought he loved England,” Linda
said with an effort. “He used to say so.”

Archie nodded as he guided her across the road
to the tea kiosk under the trees.

“I know he did; but he’s been crossed in love,
though I’m dashed if I can find out who the girl
is.” He seemed struck by a sudden idea. “It’s
not you, by any chance, I suppose?” he asked,
with a brilliant effort.

Linda managed to shake her head.

“What a bad guess!”

“Oh, well, I didn’t mean it, of course,” he said
comfortably. “Especially as he’s been saying
such bitter things about her. Called her a little
rotter and all sorts! Said he’d never been so
taken in by a girl in his life. At first he thought
her an innocent little darling, and all the rest of it,
from all accounts; but the other night when he
was telling me about it he called her something
she wouldn’t thank him for if she knew! But
that’s like Bill; there’s a lot of the brute in him.
When he’s up against it he says a lot more than he
really means.”

He dragged two chairs up to one of the little
green painted tables.

“Sit down, will you? And what would you like—tea
and cakes?”

“Anything. I don’t mind.”

Archie picked up a little menu from the table
and ran his eye over it. “I’ll tell her to bring the
bally lot, that’ll be the easiest way,” he said, in
boyish fashion. He strolled off to search for a
waitress and Linda was left alone. She felt very
cold and a little faint.

What had Bill said about her? If indeed it
had been she of whom he had spoken.

Oh what had she done to make him hate her?

She felt sick with pain and misery; she felt
ashamed to the depths of her soul that she had ever
made her poor little overture to him that night in
the rain.

Well, it was all over now; pride would help
her to forget him, and there was still the Black
Prince.

“I’ll show Bill that I don’t care. I’ll show him
I don’t care,” she told herself fiercely. Then she
turned with a little forced smile as Archie came
back.

He was a kindly soul in his way, and he felt
sorry for Linda, though he hardly knew why.

For one thing he thought she looked ill.

“Not half the bonny thing she was when we first
met,” he told himself sententiously, and felt glad
that he had not allowed himself to grow more
attached to her, for he was very susceptible, and
any fairly attractive girl could (as he would himself
have expressed it) send him “tin hats” in no time
at all.

For another thing, he thought she looked a
“sight” in her new, too-smart clothes.

“Why on earth does she want to tog herself up
like a woman twice her age?” he asked himself
in perplexity. “She was ripping enough as she
was. Suppose it’s Lincoln, though.”

He knew all about the queer partnership in the
little shop, and, like the rest of the world, had
drawn his own conclusions.

But, all the same, he felt a sort of affection and
pity for Linda. He knew how very young she
was, and he had a sister of about her own age of
whom he was passionately fond, although he
quarrelled with her whenever they met, and teased
her mercilessly.

So he did his best now to laugh and talk nonsense,
and drive the shadows from Linda’s poor
little face, while all the time his kindly mind was
searching round for an explanation of the change
in her.

“Hope the brute’s not unkind,” he thought.
“Ought to be thrashed if he is! Always knew he
was a brute,” then aloud: “Have another cake,
Miss Lovelace! Those little chocolate ones are
topping.”

But Linda could not eat; she was only thirsty
she said; it was too hot to eat.

“You want a holiday in the country,” Archie
said in brotherly fashion. “Why not get the Black
Prince to take you?”

She flushed beneath his honest eyes.

“He’s away down at Brighton,” she said with an
effort. “Besides, I don’t suppose he wants to
take me.”

“I should go down to Brighton after him, then,”
he said, so frankly that it was not possible to be
offended, and Linda laughed.

“I don’t think I should like Brighton,” she told
him. “I have always heard that it is like Regent
Street with the sea thrown in.”

He considered that remark, his head on one
side.

“It’s not a bad old place,” he said at last. “I’ve
had some good times there, anyway. Shouldn’t
mind living there if I’d got enough money to
retire.” His old cheery grin came again. “Not
that I ever shall have enough to retire on, if I
live to be a hundred,” he added with a comical
sigh. “I’ve never known what it is to possess
a shilling that isn’t already owed to somebody
twice over.”

Linda laughed.

“I shall live in the country when I marry,” she
said unthinkingly.

A little spark leapt into his eyes.

“Oh, are you going to be married?”

She shook her head. “Not yet, at any rate.”

“I believe in marriage,” Archie said with sudden
profound wisdom. “It’s a fine thing! Gives
you a rock, as you might say! Something to cling
to; a—what do you call it? A sheet anchor!
You take my advice,” he counselled. “If you get
the chance, get married.”

“I’ve had chances already,” Linda said a trifle
offended.

“I’m sure you have,” he agreed quickly. “But
don’t jib at the next hurdle. The biggest rake
often settles down and makes the best husband
if he’s properly handled.”

He thought he was alluding tactfully to Lincoln,
but Linda did not understand, and she only
laughed.

“You are a funny boy.”

“Well, if I amuse you I have not lived in vain,”
he answered.

They walked back through the park together;
and he took her to the door of the little flat above
the shop.

“Some swanky place!” he said admiringly,
standing back and staring up at the silk curtains,
and gold painted name. “You’re making a
fortune, I suppose?”

“Not quite, I’m afraid.”

“Well, good luck, anyway,” he said. “And
send me a slice of wedding cake when the great
event comes off.”

He shook her hand warmly, and walked away
thinking to himself comically, “Gee whizz! If
she pulls it off she’ll be the Honourable Mrs. . . .
My word! Won’t it make some of ’em sit up!
She’s keen on the blackguard, too! Any fool
could see that. Dead keen.”

He would have been thunderstruck if he could
have known of whom Linda was thinking as she
let herself into the little side door of the flat and
went upstairs.

The windows were all closed, and the rooms
felt hot and breathless. For the first time
she realised that the very modern curtains and
furnishings with which she had surrounded herself
with such glee, had grown wearisome and too
bright.

She opened the windows wide, and sat down in
the dusk without turning on the light.

Mrs. Johnson had gone out, leaving a little note
on the table to say she would not be home that
night, but Linda hardly read the few pencilled
lines. Mrs. Johnson was so often out, she had
grown used to her absence.

She leaned back in one of the big chairs
and closed her eyes. Her head ached, and she
felt that she would have given twenty years of
her life to find her grandmother alive and still with
her.

To meet the sweetness of her eyes, and to hear
the soft, comforting notes of her voice, would have
been worth a king’s ransom to Linda at that
moment.

She was only a child after all, who had tried to
play at being grown-up, and already she knew
herself beaten at the game.

With a sense of impatient intolerance, she put
up her hands and pulled the pins from her hair,
letting it fall anyhow about her shoulders. She
took off her smart frock impatiently and slipped
into one of the simple little dresses which she had
worn when she first went to Lorne and Dodwell’s;
then she went back to the big chair again and closed
her eyes with a sigh of restfulness.

Oh to be able to wake and find that the last
months were only a dream! to find her beloved
grandmother beside her, and never to have known
the many false hopes and ambitions which, after
all, seemed to have led such a very little way along
the road to happiness.

The tears were wet on her cheeks when presently
she fell asleep, to dream that she was down in the
country once more with Bill Sargent; to dream
of the kind, worshipful look in his eyes which had
been driven out by something that had seemed
almost like hatred; to dream of the fresh country
air and the sunshine upon her tired face again, to
hear Bill’s earnest voice. . . .

She woke with a start to the darkness of the
room, and the sound of the door-bell ringing.

She sprang up, a little shaken at being so roughly
awakened from sleep. She gathered her hair up
anyhow into a loose knot at the back of her head,
and went out to open the door.

“Well, I thought you were all dead, or run
away!” said the voice of Andrew Lincoln.

Linda had been so lonely and depressed all day
that the sight of a friend almost broke her down;
there was a little hysterical catch in her voice as
she held out both hands to him.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you. I thought you
were angry with me. I thought you were never
coming to see me any more.”

Lincoln shut the door behind him, and stood
looking at her quivering face for a moment in
silence, then he said:

“I thought you didn’t want me to come
again.”

Linda laughed a laugh that was broken with
sobbing.

“I think you’re the only friend I’ve got left,”
she said.

Lincoln’s handsome face flushed, and a look of
triumph shot into his eyes.

He took a step forward, holding out his arms.

“Come here, you poor little girl,” he said.

In Linda’s state of nervous despondency, a kind
word was a wonderful thing, and she went to
Andrew Lincoln’s outstretched arms with a sob
of thankfulness.

“I thought you were angry with me. I thought
you were never coming any more.”

“Silly child! I was angry! but I only stayed
away so that you should be pleased to see me
when I came back.” He tilted her head a little
away from him, looking into her tear drowned
eyes.

“Are you pleased?” he demanded.

She parried the question.

“I’ve been so lonely. I’ve been by myself all
the week-end.”

“Are you pleased to see me?” he insisted.
She nodded “Yes.”

He gave a little triumphant laugh, and, drawing
her back into his arms again, bent and kissed her
lips.

She uttered a cry of protest.

“Oh—please!” But he would not let her go.
He kissed her many times with passionate lips till
her face burned; he kissed her eyes and her throat,
and the soft hair which had tumbled down again,
and was hanging anyhow over her shoulders,
making her look almost a child.

“Say ‘I love you,’ ” he commanded rather
huskily.

Linda turned her face away; her heart was
racing, but she hardly knew whether she was happy
or afraid.

No man had ever kissed her before, and she
thought in a quick, frightened way of Bill.

“Do you love me?” the Black Prince demanded.

She met his eyes.

“Yes . . . at least . . . I like you very much.”

He laughed at the faltering words.

“You cold little thing! Or is it that you are
just shy? ‘Like’ is such a poor word. I can
find you a better. Put your arms round my neck.”

He gave her no time to refuse. He raised them
and laid then on his shoulders, looking down into
her confused face.

“Now—look at me! Nonsense, I want to see
your face; don’t turn it away.”

She obeyed tremblingly, and he put one hand
beneath her chin.

“Now—do you love me, Linda?”

The faintest smile quivered about her lips.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He was taken aback at the question, and a shade
of annoyance crossed his dark face, but after a
moment he laughed.

“Love you! Of course I do! Should I
be here if I did not? Of course I love you. I
adore you when you look as you do now, with
the tears in your eyes, and your hair all tumbling
down.”

“My head ached—and I do hate my new clothes
so.”

“Hate them?” he raised his brows in genuine
astonishment. “Why, you said you loved them!”
he protested.

“I know, but this evening my head ached, and I
was miserable, and so. . . .”

“You wanted me,” he said quickly. “Was
that it?”

Hot colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes grew
wide.

Was that it? and did she want him? There
was something comforting in the clasp of his arms;
something to be proud of in the fact that he loved
her, and yet—she was not sure.

Her mind flew ahead to a day when they would
be married—she was not sure that it would be a
happy thing to be Andrew Lincoln’s wife! Would
there ever again be other women in his life? She
remembered that he had once cared for Joan Astley,
or, at least, had allowed her to think that he cared.
How many more Joan Astleys had there been in
the years that were gone?

She asked yet another anxious question:—

“But will you always love me? Always?
Won’t you get tired of me some day, perhaps?”

He shook his head; he found her very adorable
in her childish anxiety. “You must be content to
wait and find that out,” he told her.

“But I want to know,” she insisted, “because
I shan’t always be even as nice as I am now. I
often have headaches and get cross; and when
we are married——” She broke off to ask
quickly: “Why, what is the matter?” for he
had taken his arms from about her almost as if he
was angry.

He gave a forced laugh.

“Nothing! I thought I heard Mrs. Johnson
coming. Go on! What were you saying?”

Linda looked at him with apprehensive eyes.

“Mrs. Johnson is out,” she said, slowly.

“Is she?” He took her hand, drawing her
again into his arms. “Well, don’t waste the
precious time asking me foolish questions, and
telling me things about yourself which I don’t
want to hear and don’t believe. I don’t believe
you are ever cross! You couldn’t be! I don’t
believe I should love you any less if you were—and
I should love you more if your head ached.”

With a little confiding movement she laid her
head down on his shoulder.

“It aches now,” she said, with a half sigh.

Lincoln turned his head and kissed her hair.

“You want a holiday. I’ll take you away
somewhere, shall I? Where would you like to
go?”

“Mrs. Johnson said I ought to have a day
in the country.”

He laughed at that.

“Nonsense! You want a week, or a month!
When shall we go?”

“Whenever you like.”

He looked into her eyes.

“You will be pleased to go with me, Linda?”
he asked slowly. “To go—alone with me?”
he said again with emphasis.

Linda nodded. “I shall love it.”

Already she felt brighter and happier; she closed
her eyes and tried to forget that there was another
man somewhere in the world whose voice had been
sweeter music to her than Andrew Lincoln’s; then
suddenly she looked up.

“I forgot to tell you. I had such a funny letter
from—from my mother.”

He raised his brows.

“Did you? Well—what did she say?”

Linda told him as well as she could.

“I should forget it,” he said swiftly. “It’s no
use worrying over other people’s peculiarities.”

“That’s what Mrs. Johnson said, but—all the
same, I hate her to write to me like that.”

“I thought you didn’t care for your mother.”

She shook her head.

“I suppose I don’t, really, and yet . . . I
wish she had not written like that.”

He stroked her cheek.

“She will soon forget it.”

Linda’s face brightened and she smiled.

“Yes, she will be pleased when I tell her about
you!” She gave his hand an affectionate little
squeeze. “She probably knows that you have
an aunt who is a Countess, and mother loves a
title.”

Andrew Lincoln looked away from her.

“What . . . what will you tell your mother
about me?” he asked jerkily.

Linda answered readily enough.

“That you love me. That we are going to be
married.”

There was a little silence, then Lincoln bent
and kissed her again, with almost passionate regret
it seemed.

“Well, don’t tell her yet,” he said. “Don’t tell
anyone till I say that you may. We must have
everything fixed up first.”

Linda agreed readily.

“It will be much nicer to keep our engagement
secret for the present,” he urged fondly. “Something
which only you and I know about.”

He broke off sharply, turning his head, as there
was a footstep outside the front door and the sound
of a latchkey.

He moved away from Linda angrily.

“I thought Mrs. Johnson was not coming back
to-night?” he said sharply.

Linda nodded, flushing in confusion.

“I thought so, too. She told me so.”

But it was Mrs. Johnson, for at that moment
the door opened and she came into the little
hall.

She was rather pale and breathless, as if something
had happened to upset her, and she stood for
a silent moment looking at them before she closed
the door behind her.

Linda began hurriedly to tidy her hair; she felt
confused and shy; she was sure that Mrs. Johnson
would guess now that Andrew Lincoln loved her;
she waited with a fast-beating heart for him to
speak.

But all he said was: “I thought you were not
coming back to-night?”

Mrs. Johnson met his angry eyes coolly, almost
with defiance.

“I changed my mind,” she said. She passed
him, and went into the little sitting-room, switching
on the light as she went.

“Did you have a good time at Brighton?” she
asked carelessly. “And will you stay to supper
with us?”

Lincoln did not answer; he stood looking from
Linda to the elder woman with a strange expression
in his eyes, then he took up his hat.

“I can’t stay, thanks all the same.” He
spoke jerkily; he took Linda’s hand, and pressed
it. “I shall see you to-morrow,” he added,
and without another word of farewell took his
departure.

Linda looked puzzled; she felt piqued, too.

“Was he angry, do you think?” she asked, as
she heard the slam of the outside door and his
departing, hurried steps.

“Not with you, dear,” Mrs. Johnson answered
gently.

“With you then?” Linda urged.

Mrs. Johnson nodded, and to Linda’s surprise
she saw that her usually hard eyes were filled with
tears.

“Oh, what is the matter?” she cried in swift
concern.

Mrs. Johnson came across the room to her, and
laid both hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t you know?” she asked slowly.

Linda shook her head.

“What do you mean? What is there to know?”

“Tell me one thing, Linda. Do you love . . .
that man?”

Linda gave a stifled cry and her face suddenly
flamed.

“Why do you speak of him like that?” she
asked shakily. “Why do you . . . oh, Mrs.
Johnson, what is the matter and what have I
done?”

“Answer my question first, Linda. Do you
love him?”

A half shake of the head, then: “Oh, I don’t
know!” the girl said piteously. “He’s kind to
me; he’s kinder to me than anyone else has ever
been, and yet . . . oh, I don’t know!” she cried
out in agitation. “He loves me . . . he has
asked me to marry him.”

“To marry you!” Mrs. Johnson turned her
round, so that the light fell full on her face. “Has
he asked you to marry him, Linda?”

“Yes. At least . . . he didn’t in so many
words; but he said he loved me—he said——”
She broke off, a strange fear in her heart. “Oh,
what do you mean?” she whispered, with pale
lips.

Mrs. Johnson took her hand, and drew her down
to the big couch, sitting beside her.

“Listen,” she said quietly, “and try to understand
if you can. Andrew Lincoln and I have
known one another for . . . . more years than
either of us would care to remember, I daresay!
He is younger than I am, as you can see—much
younger—and yet——” She turned her face away.
“There was a time when I thought I loved
him! When I really did love him, perhaps—and
he pretended to love me. Well—he’s pretended
to love a great many other women since then, and
before, I have no doubt. At any rate, he soon
got tired of me, but . . . stupidly, I did not
change. Perhaps I haven’t changed now, because
we’ve always been friends—in a queer sort of way.
I’ve often helped him like—this before! Oh,
Linda, do try and understand,” she broke out
passionately.

Linda sat very still, her lips parted, her eyes
wide and scared.

“What do you mean . . . like this! before?”
she whispered.

Mrs. Johnson kept her face averted.

“I mean that he is a man who cannot be constant
to any woman. It’s all for the day—for the
moment, then it’s finished. He took a fancy to
you the first time he saw you; you were so young
and untried! those were his own words! He told
me about you weeks ago, and said he . . . said
he wanted me to help him.”

Linda echoed the words vaguely. “To—help
him?”

“Yes. With this shop. It was all a scheme—a
plan! Oh, my dear, do try and see him as he
really is, and not as you think him! He’s a bad
man—unscrupulous—wicked! He has no love for
you——”

Linda snatched her hand away angrily.

“How dare you say such things? He does love
me—he told me so! I shall tell him what you
have said——”

She rose to her feet, her breast heaving.

Mrs. Johnson laughed mirthlessly.

“Perhaps it serves me right for trying to tell
you,” she said at last. “I don’t know why I
trouble. But . . . you’re so young . . . and so
innocent!”

Linda stood looking at her with flashing eyes.

“You’re jealous, that’s what it is,” she broke
out in young passion. “Jealous because he wants
to marry me.”

Mrs. Johnson raised her mournful eyes.

“He does not want to marry you,” she said
quietly, but with such unmistakable meaning that
Linda cried out.

“It was all arranged with me that I was to stay
away to-night,” the elder woman went on with an
effort. “He wrote to me from Brighton I was not to
come home. He had kept away because he wanted
you to miss him—because he wanted you to be glad
to see him when he came back. And then——”

“Yes—and then?” said Linda shrilly.

Mrs. Johnson could not answer, and for some
moments there was unbroken silence in the gay
little room, till Linda burst out in passionate
anger:

“I don’t believe you! You’re a wicked woman!
You’re trying to set me against him. I don’t
believe you. He’s been a good friend to me; look
what he’s done for me!”

“And for what reason, do you think?” came the
quiet question.

Mrs. Johnson had risen to her feet; she was very
pale, but there was something noble and dignified
about her at that moment.

There had been many shady patches in her life,
but to-night, at all events, she was sincerely trying
to help this girl, and to save her from the consequences
of her own wilful folly.

“Do you think a man like Andrew Lincoln would
spend his time and money on you without some
selfish reason?” she asked, patiently. “Do you
think for one moment that he ever thought or
wished to make you his wife? You told me the
other day that your friends—those girls from Lorne
and Dodwell’s—had looked at you in a queer way
when his name was mentioned! Can’t you understand
now what the reason was? Can’t you understand
now what your mother meant when she said
in that letter that she never wished to see you
again?”

Linda’s face was infinitely pathetic in its dawning
knowledge and struggling disbelief. But she
was still loyal and honest enough to cling to her
belief in Lincoln, and she cried out again, her voice
broken with sobs and agitation.

She caught up her hat from the chair, and before
Mrs. Johnson could speak or attempt to stop her,
she was out of the flat and down the stairs, her
heart beating to suffocation, and her breath almost
choking her, as she sped along the road through
the darkness of the summer night.

There was only one thought, one hope in her
heart.

To get to the Black Prince, to tell him what
had happened, and to hear the truth from his own
lips.

Chapter XVI

It was getting late when Linda reached the big
block of flats where Andrew Lincoln lived. The
tall commissionaire at the door looked at her with
a slight smile as she passed him and rang for the
lift.

She felt his eyes following her as she was whirled
upwards; she felt the eyes of the lift-boy following
her as with shaky steps she crossed the stone landing,
and rang the bell at Lincoln’s flat.

It was only then, when she waited with fast
beating heart for a reply, that she began to think.

It was late! She had no idea of the time, but
she knew that it must be very late.

Would he be angry with her for coming? Would
he think she was mad? Almost she would have
retreated, but that the door opened and Gran,
Lincoln’s valet, stood there.

Linda falteringly asked for Lincoln, and the
man stood aside, his face inscrutable as ever.

“Yes, Mr. Lincoln was in; would she please to
enter?”

Linda obeyed agitatedly, and when she heard
the outer door closing behind her she turned with
a start:

“Oh, please! I think I——” But it was too
late; the sitting-room door had been opened and
Lincoln himself stood there.

If he was surprised to see who his visitor was
he concealed the fact admirably; he smiled and
held out a welcoming hand.

“Come in. How sweet of you, Linda!”

Her fingers shook in his, and she looked round
her with fearful eyes.

“Not frightened of me?” he asked gently. He
lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it as he pulled
forward a chair for her.

“Sit down and tell me all about it. Now, then——”

Twice Linda tried to speak before she could find
her voice, then she broke out: “I came—I came—Mrs.
Johnson said—oh, I came because I wanted
you to tell me—I wanted to ask you——” She
could not go on, she ended in a burst of pitiful
weeping.

Lincoln stood looking at her silently for a
moment, then he went down on his knees beside
her, encircling her with his arms.

“You came because you love me—that’s it,
isn’t it?” he asked, his lips close to hers. “You
came because you knew it spoilt our beautiful evening
when Mrs. Johnson came in. You came
because you wanted to be with me alone! That
was it, wasn’t it?”

Linda flung her head back as far as she could
beyond his reach, her eyes searching his with an
agonised question.

“I came to ask you if you really love me. If
you . . . if you really want to . . . marry
me?”

There was a tragic silence. He tried to answer,
but before the honesty of her eyes his own fell
ashamed, and Linda gave a choking cry of pain.

“Then . . . it is true, what she said! It is
true that you . . . that I—that you . . . .”
She tried to rise to her feet, but he held her fast.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

He laughed at her ineffectual struggles.

“You little fool,” he said amusedly. “Why
should I marry you when I can have you without?
What do you think I’ve spent all this money on
you for? Do you think I really imagined you
were capable of running a shop? Do you think
I’m such an idiot as that? My dear child, you’re
even younger and more innocent than I thought!
When I marry it will be for money, and plenty of it,
before I put my head in such an uncongenial noose.
. . . Don’t be silly, Linda! Kiss me and let’s
be happy. I’ll treat you well, I swear I will!
I’ll give you a good time and lots of pretty clothes.
I’ll take you about. . . .”

She held her stampeding nerves in check for yet
another moment as her white lips asked a
question.

“And then? . . . when you’re tired of me?”

That seemed to amuse him.

“So you’ve got a business head, after all, eh?”
he asked. “You’re not too innocent to try and
make terms with me?”

He thought he understood her perfectly; he
judged her by the standard of other women whom
he had known and with whom he had amused himself.
So it was to be the same old game, after all,
even with this pretty child! He was conscious
of disappointment; she had promised to be something
fresh and interesting.

He loosened his hold of her, and in a flash she
was on her feet and across the room.

Lincoln looked at her and laughed.

“You can spare yourself all that trouble,” he
said. “Gran won’t answer or come if you call
from now till the end of the world. He’s a well-trained
servant, I can assure you.”

He advanced towards her, smiling good-humouredly.

“Now are you going to be sensible? What
are you so frightened about? I’m not a brute.
I’m not going to beat you.”

“You are a brute!—a brute!—an unspeakable
brute!” she panted.

She was as white as death, and her eyes were dark
with fear as she stood there facing him with the
courage of despair.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Call me names if you like! I don’t care.
You’ve got plenty of spirit, that’s one thing, and I
like a woman with spirit.”

“Let me go!”

He lit a cigarette.

“I will presently. I promise you that. You
came here to please yourself, so you can stay for a
little while to please me.”

“If you are a gentleman——”

That amused him immensely; he flung back his
handsome head and laughed.

“You’re changing your tactics, are you! First
I’m a brute, and then, when you find that won’t
do, I’m a gentleman! Thank you very much.
I’m much obliged, I’m sure.”

She felt nearly dead with fear. She knew now
what a terrible position she was in; knew that there
was nobody to help her.

Her thoughts went to Bill in a wild, hopeless
prayer.

She would have fallen at his feet and kissed them
in humble gratitude and abasement, if only he
could have come to her.

But Bill hated and despised her; he believed
what everyone else believed, that she and this . . .
profligate! . . . . she hid her face in her hands
and shuddered.

Lincoln was lounging on the arm of a chair,
calmly smoking, but his brows were frowning, and
his voice was savage when presently he broke out.

“So I’ve Mrs. Johnson to thank for this, have
I? Well, I shan’t forget to thank her properly,
I promise you. Turned saint all at once, eh?
The beauty!” He laughed bitterly. “Trust a
woman to let you down! Jealous, I suppose.
Well!” he rose to his feet again, flinging the half-smoked
cigarette into the empty grate.

“Come here, Linda.”

She raised her tragic eyes.

“I would rather die.”

He smiled cynically. “Oh, you won’t do that.
You haven’t begun to live properly yet. Come
here and be kissed! You were happy enough an
hour ago with me . . . Linda.”

He went towards her, but she evaded his outstretched
arms and rushed across to the window.

The curtains were drawn, but as in her terror
she tore them aside she saw that the window was
wide open at the bottom.

She gave a wild sob of relief; she put both her
hands on the sill, and, turning, faced him.

“If you come a step nearer, or touch me, I will
jump out.”

For the moment he was checked; he stood
still, frowning heavily, then he took another step
towards her.

“Don’t be such a little fool! A nice scandal
it would make. Linda, listen to me. I promise——”
He broke off, his face paling as someone
hammered heavily on the outer door of the flat.

Linda closed her eyes; there was no hope in her
heart, and yet—she listened with strained attention
to that repeated hammering.

Then she heard Gran’s slow footstep crossing
the hall, then the careful opening of the door;
then a man’s voice, and the sound of a quick scuffle
before the sitting-room door was banged open
beneath the touch of a giant hand, and Bill
Sargent walked in.

Linda gave a choking cry and stumbled across
the room to him, catching at his arm with shaking
hands, but he swept her aside ruthlessly. He
seemed to have no attention for anyone but Andrew
Lincoln, and for an instant the two men faced
one another without speaking, then Lincoln broke
out blusteringly:

“What’s the meaning of this? What the devil
do you mean by coming here?” He took a stride
towards the door and shouted for his man “Gran!
Gran! What the devil——”

Bill moved back till his stalwart figure almost
touched the door; his face was white with rage,
and his eyes were like steel points beneath his
frowning brows.

“You can stop that,” he said roughly. “I’ve
told that fellow pretty plainly what to expect if
he interferes. You’ve got to settle with me alone
this time.”

Lincoln dashed across the room and tugged at
the bell.

“I’ll fetch the police. I’ll have you prosecuted.”

Bill laughed without much mirth.

“Will you? I don’t think you will,” he said
quietly. “I don’t think you’re particularly
anxious for your murky past to be washed in
the police-court; besides, by the time I’ve done
with you you won’t be a beautiful spectacle for
anyone to look at. Now then—are you ready.”

Linda screamed.

“Bill! Bill—don’t hurt him; what are you
going to do?”

Bill flung her a glance.

“I’m going to do what a dozen other fellows
ought to have done before now. I’m going to
thrash him.”

He began to take off his coat as he spoke, but
Linda flew to him, clinging to his arm with shaking
hands.

“Don’t! don’t,” she sobbed in terror. “Let
him go! Let him go!”

Bill shook her aside as if she had been a child;
he was mad and blind with rage; he was naturally
a strong man, but fury added to his strength.

Lincoln was at the telephone; he had got the
receiver in his hand when Bill caught him round
the waist and dragged him away.

“Oh, no, you don’t, you skunk! You’ll fight
like an honest man, if you know how to; and if
you don’t, you’ll take your punishment like the
hound you are.”

Linda had fallen into the big chair, her face
hidden in her hands, moaning and rocking to and
fro.

During all that followed she never looked up,
though she heard it all with agonising clearness;
the scuffling—the blows—the curses and oaths,
and then the sound of a heavy body falling, and
silence.

She looked up at last, her face white with terror,
her eyes wild.

Lincoln was huddled up on the floor. Tables
and chairs were overthrown, and the expensive
glass bowl which always stood on the writing-desk,
filled with flowers, had crashed to the floor and lay
in pieces.

Bill was standing over the other man’s prostrate
form; his own face was bleeding and his lip was cut.
His collar and shirt were torn, and he was shaking
from head to foot with the storm of passion and
emotion that had rent him.

Linda rose to her feet giddily.

“Bill!”

He took no notice of her, but he touched the
man on the floor with a contemptuous foot.

“Get up you—cur.”

Lincoln struggled to his feet with infinite difficulty;
he was a pitiable object, and Linda shuddered
as she saw his face.

He fell into a chair, and sat there groaning and
crying like the coward he was.

Bill picked up his coat and put it on; then
for the first time he looked at Linda.

“Have you got a hat and coat?”

“Yes.”

“Put them on.”

She obeyed without a word, and Bill went to the
door and flung it wide. Gran stood out there in
the narrow hall; Bill flung him a word, “Go and
get a taxi.”

The man departed hurriedly, glad to escape, and
Bill went back into the sitting-room, and for a
moment looked silently at his victim. Then he
said hoarsely:

“And you’ll get it again if I hear of any more
of your tricks.”

Then he turned his back on him and stood breathing
hard, his eyes fixed before him, till Gran came
timidly to the door.

“The taxi, sir.”

Linda had never heard him speak so respectfully
before.

Bill turned.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He led the way from the room, but she stopped
behind for one moment to look at Lincoln.

The Black Prince they had called him! He
looked anything but princely now. And she had
thought so much of him, had been so proud of the
thing she had called his friendship.

She whispered a question to Gran as he held the
door open for her to pass out.

“Oh, is he very much hurt, do you think?” for
the memory of that struggle and the sound of Bill’s
blows were still with her.

Gran flung his master a contemptuous glance.

“No need to worry, miss,” he said. “It’s what
he ought to have had long enough ago.”

Linda gave a little stifled cry; it seemed horrible
to her—horrible that everyone but herself had
known Lincoln for what he really was.

She followed Bill down the stone stairs to the
street, her limbs shaking, and he stalked on in
front, without looking to the right or the left, and
opened the door of the waiting taxi for her.

“Get in!”

His voice was blunt, almost rude, but she did
not care.

She was so glad to be with him, no matter what
the circumstances; she realised now that Bill’s
bluntness was worth a thousand times more than
the other man’s gallantry and finished attention.

Bill got in beside her, and the cab started away.

Linda leaned back and closed her eyes. There
were a thousand questions she wanted to ask.
Why he had come. How he knew where to find
her. And whether—oh! whether he would ever
forgive her. But she was afraid.

They had gone half-way back to the little shop
before she could summon enough courage to speak.

“Bill?”

No answer, and she moved her hand timidly till
it touched his; a clenched hand it was, that jerked
away from her instantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry! sorry!” she said passionately.
“I’ve been silly . . . and vain. I thought I
knew best, but . . . there isn’t any reason why
you should hate me so,” she added in a whisper.

No answer, till suddenly Bill leaned forward,
his face hidden against those clenched hands, and
she heard the ugly sound of a man sobbing.

She longed to put her arm round him and try to
comfort him, but she was afraid; and she sat
crouched away in her corner, the tears raining down
her face, and her heart breaking with remorse and
grief for all that she had made him suffer.

Then the taxi-cab stopped outside the little shop,
and Bill opened the door for her to get out.

She passed him without a word, her head down-bent,
her eyes blinded with tears, but she knew
that he waited till she was safely indoors again;
then she heard the cab drive away.

Mrs. Johnson met her at the door of the flat.
She had been crying, and her face was flushed and
swollen.

She took Linda’s hand, and drew her into the
room before she asked an agitated question.

“Mr. Sargent?”

Linda’s dazed eyes widened.

“Did you send him?”

Mrs. Johnson nodded.

“He came—just after you had gone out. It
seemed so strange—almost as if he guessed! I
told him what I knew, and he followed you.”

She broke down into quiet sobbing. “Oh,
Linda, if a man had ever loved me as that man
loves you, I shouldn’t be the lonely woman I am
to-day.”

Chapter XVII

Mrs. Johnson and Linda went away together
quite early the following morning, before anyone
was about, and the little shop with the gay silk
curtains in the turning off Maddox Street remained
closed.

Mrs. Johnson knew of rooms to which they could
go; clean, quiet little rooms behind Kensington
High Street, which were kept by a friend of hers,
and she and Linda installed themselves there.

In the past twenty-four hours a great friendship
seemed to have been established between them.
Looking at Mrs. Johnson, Linda could hardly
believe her to be the same calculating, worldly
woman whom she had first known. There was a
softened, almost motherly look about her, and
she had kissed Linda with real affection when the
girl haltingly tried to thank her for what she had
done.

“What will you do now?” Linda asked, timidly.
“What will become of you?”

Mrs. Johnson laughed. “Oh, I’ve been on the
rocks before, lots of times,” she said, almost cheerfully.
“I shall pull through. I haven’t any
money, but something will turn up; it always
does.”

“I’ve got a little of my own—about a hundred
a year, I think,” Linda told her. “We can manage
on that for a time, can’t we?”

“It will keep us out of the workhouse, anyway,”
Mrs. Johnson said. “And you, Linda? What
are you going to do now?”

Linda smiled with tremulous lips.

“I must work. I daresay I can get into a shop
somewhere. Oh, if only I had never left Lorne’s,”
she broke out in passionate remorse.

“He wouldn’t speak to me last night,” Linda
said. “He looked at me as if he hated me.”

“That shows he loves you, then,” Mrs. Johnson
said bluntly. “If he did not he would have been
quite polite—beautifully indifferent, in fact.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand men,” Linda
said wearily.

“You don’t need to, if you understand one!”
Mrs. Johnson said wisely. “Goodness me, how
old are you?”

“Seventeen—at least, I’ll be eighteen next
month.”

She felt years and years older; her head ached
with trying to think and sort out the complex
emotions of the past weeks.

She had been so vain and egotistical; she had
thought she knew so much; she had been dazzled
by things that really mattered nothing, and had
shut her eyes to the great happiness of life. “Mine
be a cot beside the hill——”

She cried herself to sleep that night with Bill
Sargent’s name upon her lips.

He would never forgive her! she would never
see him again! she was not good enough for him;
not worthy of his love.

In the morning she put her pride in her pocket
and went to meet Miss Gillet on the road to Lorne
and Dodwell’s.

“Do you think Mr. Robert would take me
back?”

Miss Gillet stared, her cold, fish-like eyes
scrutinising the girl stonily, then at sight of the
tearstains and distress she saw written there she
softened.

“Had enough of independence?” she asked.

Linda hung her head.

“Oh, I’ve been such a fool!” she whispered.

Miss Gillet considered a minute.

“You wouldn’t have a very pleasant time,” she
said at last. “The girls will tease you, and perhaps
be unkind.”

“I don’t care. I shouldn’t mind that.”

“Mind you, I don’t say that Mr. Robert would
take you.”

“I could ask him.”

Miss Gillet held out her hand.

“Well, you’re a plucky little thing,” she said,
warmly. “I’ll back you up if you really
mean it.”

Tears welled into Linda’s eyes.

“Oh, Miss Gillet, you are a dear!”

Miss Gillet flushed in confusion.

“Don’t be sentimental,” she said bluntly, but
her voice was kind, and she added, “You’d better
come along now, if you really mean what you say.
Mr. Robert will be alone I know; the old gentleman
is away.”

So Linda walked down the long passage once
again to the door with its frosted glass and two
names painted one above the other:—

“Mr. Samuel Lorne.”

“Mr. Robert Lorne.”

And she was conscious of the old thrill of nervous
dread as she tapped with timid fingers.

“Come in.”

Mr. Robert was there alone, bending over his
papers, but his eyes were kind as he looked up and
met Linda’s scared gaze.

“Good morning,” he said. He rose to his feet,
and brought forward a chair for her.

“Won’t you sit down?”

It was just as if the past four months were wiped
out or had never been, Linda thought giddily as she
obeyed; it almost seemed as if when she walked
out of this room again it must be to run home
to her grandmother and tell her all that had
happened.

She sat silent for so long that at last Robert
Lorne urged again gently. “Well, what can I do
for you? Don’t be afraid.”

She told him then impetuously, not sparing
herself, but simply and straightforwardly confessing
her foolishness and disillusionment.

He listened with kind attention, suppressing a
smile now and then at her naïveness, and then
when she had finished he asked:—

“And how can I help you in all this, Miss Lovelace?”

“Take me back here,” said Linda.

“Take you back!” He raised his shaggy
brows; somehow he had not expected this. “Are
you serious? Are you sure that you really want
to come? After your independence——”

Linda’s eyes filled with tears.

“Please take me back,” she begged.

Robert Lorne sat silently considering for some
time; then he asked, “And Miss Gillet?”

“She would like me to come,” Linda told him
eagerly.

He held out his hand; there was something very
young and appealing in Linda.

“Very well. Come back,” he said.

Linda left the office hardly knowing if she was
not in a dream. She had not expected such kindness;
her sore heart felt comforted, and her courage
was returning.

She could wipe out the past if she would; she
could start again. She met Nelly Sweet as she
left the big building, and after the barest hesitation
Nelly stopped.

“Good Lord!” She asked no questions, perhaps
she guessed what there was to know. “Well,
I’m leaving,” she announced with pride. “I’m
going to be married! No, not to Bill,” she added
casually as she saw a change in Linda’s face. “You
can have him if you like. I’ve got a new boy.
He’s got his own business and a car.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy,” Linda said.

She went back to Mrs. Johnson feeling as if years
of unhappiness and woe had been lifted from her
shoulders; she ran upstairs with quick steps, eager
to tell her great news; she broke open the
door excitedly. “I’m going back to Lorne’s. Mr.
Robert says . . .” then she stopped with a little
gasp, for it was not Mrs. Johnson who rose to meet
her, but Bill Sargent.

Linda’s first thought was to run away; she
looked back at the door which she had impetuously
banged behind her, and then desperately round
the room as if seeking other means of escape, but
there was none, and she broke out in nervous
agitation.

“I thought you’d left London. I thought
you were never coming back to London any
more.”

It was the last thing she meant to say, and she
realised how ungracious the words must sound as
soon as she had spoken them.

“They gave me a week’s holiday to get settled
into my new quarters,” Bill explained. He spoke
jerkily. “That’s why I happened to be up last
night.” His tone of voice added, “Thank God,”
and then there was a little silence before he added,
“I’ve only looked in to see if you are all right and
to say good-bye.”

Linda tried to answer, but her voice seemed to
have gone.

To say good-bye! she lifted her eyes to his
agitated face.

“I’m not . . . not ever going to see you again
then?”

“Well, it’s not very likely.” He avoided looking
at her. “I shan’t often come to Town. I’ve
had enough of it, and I don’t suppose you’re likely
to visit my part of the world; you’re not fond
enough of the country.”

She crept a little closer to him.

“You . . . you mean that you don’t wish
to see me again?”

He half shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know that it’s much use,” he protested.

Linda put out a trembling hand and touched his
arm. She felt as if the end of the world had come
now that Bill seemed no longer to want her; somehow
at the back of her mind there had always been
the conviction that whatever happened, he would
forgive her in the end.

She broke out into faltering pleading.

“Bill! I didn’t know what he was. I didn’t
understand. I know what you think—I suppose
you had a perfect right to think it, but I
swear to you that nothing has ever happened
in my life that I should be ashamed to tell you
about.”

The flush deepened in his face, and his eyes
looked infinitely distressed, though the hard lines
of his mouth were unyielding.

This girl had made him suffer very deeply, but
since his breakdown last night his heart seemed
to have turned against her, and to realise the
futility of his love.

And yet he had been unable to keep away
from her this morning; the desire to see for himself
that she was safe and well had driven him
to come to the address which Mrs. Johnson had
given him.

There was a little silence, then he said constrainedly:
“There is no need for you to explain
anything, or—or to try and put yourself right in
my eyes. I’m glad if I was of use to you last
night. I’m glad I had the chance to thrash that
scoundrel——” He laughed bitterly. “He didn’t
look much of a hero when I’d done with him,
did he?”

Linda shuddered; she wondered if she would
ever forget her last sight of the Black Prince.

Bill shifted uneasily; this interview was getting
badly on his nerves, and he was beginning to regret
that he had come.

“What . . . what are you going to do with
yourself now?” he asked presently with an effort.

She told him readily enough.

“I’m going back to Lorne’s. I went to see Mr.
Robert Lorne this morning, and he was very kind
to me.”

“He’s a very decent chap,” Bill said.

“So I shall go back,” Linda said again. “And
I shall live here with Mrs. Johnson. She says that
I may. She has been very kind to me, Bill.”

“Yes,” said Bill.

And the silence fell again, which he broke by
taking up his hat. “Well, I’ll be going; there’s
nothing else I can do for you?”

Linda took her courage in both desperate hands.

“Yes, you can forgive me.”

“Forgive you?”

“Yes.” She was scarlet now, and there were
tears in her eyes. “I’ve been a little fool, I know,
but I’m sorry! I can’t tell you how sorry! I
should like to go on my knees to you and——”

She stood back, struck to the soul. So this was
the end. The Bill she had known, who had sworn
to love her all his life, had gone, and in his place
was this hard-faced, relentless man who would not
forgive her.

She let him go as far as the door before her pride
melted, and with a little choking cry she ran after
him.

“Bill, dear Bill!”

He turned, but did not speak, and Linda realised
in despair that if peace was ever made between
them again it would be she who must do it,
that he would not even come half-way to meet
her.

Tears were streaming down her face now, but she
met his gaze steadily.

“Please forgive me—please love me again.”

Bill took a step back towards her.

“Love you! For how long?” he asked sternly.
“Until the next man comes along who will flatter
you more than I do—and give you a better time.
Till the next plausible scoundrel with a motor-car
and a title looks at you as that . . . that——”

“Bill!” The rage in his voice frightened her,
and he turned away, breathing hard.

“I beg your pardon. Let me go, please.”

She slipped between him and the door; she
felt as if she was fighting for her life—for her
safety!

Bill’s love was such a sure, strong thing; it would
be like an impregnable fortress between her and
the world; something which temptation could not
break down.

“And if I ask you to stay?” she said faintly.
“If I—if I say that I love you—that I can’t be
happy without you?”

For an instant she thought she had won; a flicker
of light crossed his face, and he half turned to her,
then he drew back again. “I’m sorry,” he said
with stiff lips. “It’s kind and—and generous of
you, but—but—it wouldn’t do. I’m not the man
for you, you’ve shown me that. You wouldn’t
be happy with me. Far better say good-bye
now and part good friends.”

Linda felt as if she had been struck to the heart,
the colour drained away from her face, and she
closed her eyes with a sick feeling of defeat; then,
with a tremendous effort, she clutched at her
courage again.

“You’re saying this because you are angry with
me. Oh, Bill, don’t make us both miserable for
the rest of our lives just because I’ve been foolish.
You said you would always love me—you said you
would never change.”

“Apparently I was wrong. Nobody knows what
they will do until the time comes. You changed!
You’re not the girl you were when I first knew you.
You’ve grown more worldly—the simple pleasures
I could give you would not be enough now. If I—if
I loved you ever so well I should be afraid of
the risk.”

When she moved forward and laid a hand on
his arm he shook it gently away.

“You’re tired and overstrung. You’ll see things
differently to-morrow, and in the end you’ll thank
me for having gone away and not having taken
you at your word. You’ve got all your life before
you——”

She broke in passionately.

“I haven’t anything, without you! Bill, it’s
unkind of you to make me say it all, but I do love
you—I do——”

He looked at her with sad eyes; she was such a
child!

How had he ever expected her to know her
own mind; he had spoken no less than the truth
when he said that he was afraid to take the
risk.

She saw the hesitation in his face, and, suddenly
brave, she went to him and put her arms round his
neck.

“Don’t go away, dear,” she sobbed. “I’ll do
anything, anything—oh! can’t you see that I mean
it? that I’m sorry—sorry——”

Bill stood immovable, though his face was
white.

Her tears hurt him, and the touch of her arms
about his neck was like a mighty force breaking
down his defences, but he would not give in.

It was with great difficulty that he at last found
his voice.

“I’ll come back in a year—six months!—and
if you still want me——”

“You will never come back if you go now;
you’ll forget me.”

“Forget you,” he laughed queerly. “Shall I?
I don’t think so.”

“Then if you still care for me, why won’t you
stay? I’ll marry you—I’ll marry you as soon as
you like.”

He lifted his hands and unclasped hers from his
neck with gentle force.

“For your own sake, no!” he said hoarsely.
“I love you—I do love you. I can think of no
greater happiness than to make you my wife, but
it’s not right or fair; it’s taking advantage of you
because of—of last night. Linda, don’t cry like
that! I can’t bear it. Let me go, and I’ll come
back . . . I’ll come back, and then if you want
me——”

She was sobbing broken-heartedly.

“I shall never see you again. I know I never
shall.”

Bill stood irresolute; his every impulse was
to take her into his arms, but he was afraid—afraid
of the future, afraid of her youth, and
he knew that if he lost her again it would break
his heart.

He went to her; he took her face between his
hands and, bending his head, kissed her once, very
gently, and then before she could speak or stop
him, he had gone.

Mrs. Johnson, coming in an hour later, found
Linda still sobbing.

“Why, whatever is the matter?” she asked in
alarm. She had known all about Bill Sargent’s
visit, and had hoped great things.

Linda told her as well as she could.

“I asked him to stay. I said I would marry
him, but he didn’t believe that I meant it; he said
he was afraid that I should get tired of him—he said
I was so young! as if I’m not old enough to know
my own mind,” she finished indignantly.

Mrs. Johnson smiled, a faintly sympathetic
smile; she could remember the hot impulses of her
own youth and understand.

“I think Mr. Sargent must love you very dearly,”
she said at last. “Come, stop crying, and be a
sensible girl. He’ll come back; he only wants you
to be sure of yourself; he wants to teach you a
lesson.”

Linda cried out indignantly.

“How dare he! Anyone would think I am not
old enough to take care of myself. I will not be
dictated to by him!”

Mrs. Johnson looked resigned.

“In that case I should say that Mr. Sargent
has done the right thing by going away,” she
said.

But during the next few weeks, at all events, it
looked very much as if Bill had departed for good.

There was no letter from him, no sign of him,
and Linda began to look pale and listless.

She seemed to have no interest in anything but
her work; she was Miss Gillet’s devoted slave at
Lorne and Dodwell’s till even that martinet remonstrated
with her.

“You’ll kill yourself if you go on like this, Miss
Lovelace,” she said one day. “Why don’t you
go out into the country or to a theatre sometimes?
All work and no play is bad, you know.”

But Linda did not care; she was only in the
smallest degree happy when she was working; she
dreaded going home even to Mrs. Johnson’s kindliness;
it gave her too much time to think and to
realise how foolish she had been and what she had
lost.

Then one day she saw the announcement of
Andrew Lincoln’s engagement in the paper, to a
widow.

Mrs. Johnson apparently knew all about it.

“They’ve been friends for a long time,” she told
Linda. “She is at least double his age, and very
rich. I always thought that he intended to marry
her if she would have him.”

“I’m sorry for her, whoever she is,” Linda said
passionately.

“I should think she is probably quite capable
of looking after herself,” Mrs. Johnson answered.

It was the following afternoon that Miss Gillet
came to Linda in great excitement.

“Mrs. Ervine is in the store,” she said.

“Mrs. Ervine!” Linda echoed the name unrecognisingly,
then she flushed. “Oh!” she said
softly.

Mrs. Ervine was the widow who was to marry
Andrew Lincoln.

“She’s coming across now,” Miss Gillet said in a
whisper.

Linda’s heart beat fast as she looked at the woman
who was approaching. She was small and overdressed,
with hair that was too yellow, and cheeks
too pink. She looked haggard, too, as if she found
life exhausting, and she carried a little Pekinese
under her arm, with a huge pink bow round its neck.

Linda left Miss Gillet to attend to her; she
kept at the far end of the counter till she had
gone.

“They’re to be married in a month,” Miss Gillet
informed her later. “And all I can say is that it
serves them both right.”

Linda made no comment. She only wished to
forget them both as soon as possible.

She caught cold going home that night. She
had on a thin frock, and it came on to rain steadily,
soaking her to the skin before she had time to get
shelter.

She was shivery and her head ached at business
the following day, and when she got home at
night she had a temperature, and was promptly
put to bed by Mrs. Johnson, in spite of her
protests.

“Do you want to get pneumonia and die?”
Mrs. Johnson demanded vigorously.

Linda said she didn’t care.

“You’ll have to stay in bed,” the elder woman
went on. “I’ll make it right with Lorne’s. Now,
is there anything you’d like?”

“No, thank you.” Linda turned her face away.
There was only one thing she wanted in the world—to
see Bill! And Bill, she knew, would not
come.

Chapter XVIII

Linda’s chill developed with alarming rapidity,
and before another day was over the pneumonia
with which Mrs. Johnson had threatened her had
set in in earnest, and she was very ill indeed.

The doctor came twice during the first day, and
again at night; he looked grave, and talked of
alarming symptoms and a weak constitution.

“But she has always seemed so strong,” Mrs.
Johnson protested in anxiety.

The doctor shook his head.

“Are you any relation to her?” he asked.

“No—we are only friends.”

“Has she a mother—father? Anyone of her
own?”

“She has a mother, but they never see one
another. I am sure it would be bad for Linda
to send for her.”

“Humph! Well, if there is anyone else——”
he said vaguely.

He took his departure, leaving Mrs. Johnson
greatly agitated.

In her own way she was very fond of Linda,
and the thought that perhaps she might die was
terrible to her.

It was on the second day, when Linda was lying
with closed eyes and difficult breath, that Mrs.
Johnson thought of Bill Sargent.

Linda had not mentioned his name, but, taking
matters into her own hands, Mrs. Johnson sent
him a telegram.

“If he comes, well and good,” was her philosophy.
“If he does not, well, she is no worse off, poor
child.”

But Bill came. He caught the first train from
the country after banking hours, and was at Mrs.
Johnson’s door as quickly as train and taxi-cab
could bring him.

Mrs. Johnson gave one glance at his agitated
face and smiled, well pleased.

“So you’ve come,” she said.

“Come! of course I have! How is she? Can
I see her? What is the matter?”

“She caught cold; it’s turned to pneumonia.
She’s very ill.”

“Not——” He could not say the word that
had been hammering at his heart ever since he
read the telegram.

Mrs. Johnson shook her head.

“No, but she’s very ill, and the doctor thought——”

Bill cut her short unceremoniously.

“Can I see her now?”

“Yes.”

He went into the room, and down on his knees
beside the bed.

“Linda!”

She had been lying with closed eyes, but she
opened them at once when she heard his voice, and
tears came into them slowly, falling down her pale
cheeks.

“You poor little child!” said Bill huskily.

He slipped an arm beneath her head, drawing
her to him, and laid his cheek to hers.

“I’ve come back, you see,” he said. “I’ve
come back and I’m not going away again—not
even if you send me!” he added, trying to laugh.
“And you’ll get well, and we’ll be married, and——”

“You do love me, then?” she whispered.

“I adore you,” said Bill.

So Linda began to get well.

“It would have been a disgrace if you had not,”
Mrs. Johnson told her when she was first allowed
out of bed. “What with me waiting on you hand
and foot, and Mr. Sargent racing up from the
country every evening to see you! No queen ever
had more fuss made about her.”

“Isn’t it time he was here?” Linda asked
anxiously, for it was Saturday and Bill’s half-day.

But even as she spoke the bell rang, and a
moment later Bill was in the room, and Mrs.
Johnson had discreetly vanished.

Linda looked at him with shining eyes as he
came across the room and, bending, kissed her.

“I’m up, you see,” she said eagerly. “Do you
think I look better?”

“So much better that I shall have to go and get
that marriage license,” he declared. He drew up
a chair and sat down beside her. “Well, aren’t
you ashamed of yourself for the scare you’ve given
me?” he asked, for there had been anxious days
when Linda’s life had hung in the balance.

She leaned her head against his shoulder with a
little sigh of contentment.

“I’m glad I was ill; you wouldn’t have come
back if I hadn’t been ill.”

“That’s all you know,” he said severely. “Every
day after I left you here I was on the point of giving
in and coming back. I came up to Town a dozen
times at least, and then——”

“Oh, Bill, how unkind!”

He kissed her with passionate remorse.

“This has been worth the waiting! You are
so young.”

“I’m not too young to know that I love you
better than anyone in the world.”

“And always will?” he urged jealously.

“Always! Always!”

He looked at her for a long moment with happy
eyes, then bent and kissed her lips.

“I shall never be a rich man, Linda.”

“What does it matter?”

“You’ll never be a great lady with me.”

She shivered as she thought of her foolish
dreams.

“I’m glad!” she said fervently, and then, with
childish eagerness that made him laugh, she asked,
“And we can get married soon, can’t we?”

“Are you so impatient to change your name for
mine?” he teased her.

She snuggled her head on to his shoulder.

“I should feel so—safe!” she whispered.

“I shall bully you dreadfully,” he warned her.

She sighed; then smiled.

“And I shall love being bullied by you.”

“So it’s to be good-bye to the ribbons and laces,”
Mrs. Johnson said when she was told that they
were to be married as soon as Linda was strong
enough.

Linda looked at Bill and smiled.

She had no regrets; she had lost her ambition
to make a great name and a lot of money; she had
no ambition now except to be with Bill for the
rest of her life.

“I wonder if Grannie knows how happy I
am,” Linda said dreamily, the night before her
wedding.

“I daresay she does,” Mrs. Johnson said, with
unwonted gentleness. “I’m not a religious woman—far
from it!—but I do believe that people who
love us, and who have died, know what we are
doing down here.”

She and Miss Gillet were the only two guests
when Linda was married, and afterwards she and
her husband went straight away to Devonshire.

As the train started, Linda let the window down
with a little run, and, leaning out, sniffed at
the air.

“Bill, I can smell the country already.”

“Nonsense!” Bill laughed. “Why, we’re miles
away from it.”

He put an arm round her, and drew her back to
him.

“And to think it used to be my idea of happiness,”
she said, in a puzzled voice.

“What did?” he asked.

“Ribbons and laces!” she made a little grimace.
“I thought that the world and life began and ended
with money and pretty clothes and things like
that. It was my idea of having a good time and
of being perfectly happy.”

“And what is it now, my little wife?” Bill asked
in faint anxiety.

Linda flushed like a wild rose, and her lips
trembled as she answered him in the words of the
poem which once he had spoken to her:

“Mine be a cot beside the hill.

A beehive’s hum shall soothe my ear,

A willowy brook that turns a mill

With many a fall shall linger near.”

“I loved you from the day you said that to me,”
she told him. “I used to hate to think that perhaps
I might never be the Lucy to sing in your
little house, Bill.”